


Another World: JOHNLOCK

by SHFF



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Conflict, Drama, Drama & Romance, Erotica, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, POV Multiple, POV Third Person Omniscient, Plot, Serious, Sexual Content, Smut, Some Humor, Storytelling, Suspense, Tension, Thriller, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SHFF/pseuds/SHFF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Two years, it had been two years. John Watson had always known he was bisexual, which made it easier for him to state, “I'm not gay!” to everyone that assumed he and Sherlock were a couple. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “In One Day”

**Author's Note:**

> Set after Series 3, during an alternate Series 4.
> 
> \---
> 
> Includes non-villain Mary, and Johnlockary.
> 
> ((Written as an RP with 'bakerstirregular0,' prompted by myself on Omegle.))
> 
> **If there are any errors I apologize. I went through and edited, but may have missed stuff here and there.***
> 
> This fan made teaser is extremely relevant to this fic/RP: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YD6FUmNSle0

You: Two years, it had been two years. John Watson had always known he was bisexual, which made it easier for him to state, “I'm not gay!” to everyone that assumed he and Sherlock were a couple. It must have been obvious though, that John had feelings. Everyone, even Mary, teased him about it from time to time. Those two years Sherlock was gone were the only two that anyone remained silent on the matter, except for Ms. Hudson when he told her he was proposing to someone... It'd been another two since then, and the doctor had a daughter on the way. He still didn't know who Mary had been in her past life, and for a time that had bothered him, but now... John was spending more time with Sherlock than he should be as an expecting father. The duo had been eluded by Moriarty thus far, and Sherlock was still on probation with the law after murdering Magnussen. John was warring with his double life, and even though Mary had insisted to them both on many occasions that the two men would still have plenty of time together, they really didn't, and by societies standards John was clearly making the incorrect decision. But...

"John?" Sherlock glanced over at the doctor, wondering why he hadn't responded.

Stranger: "What?!" John said more sharply then he meant to at Sherlock, but he'd been interrupted in the middle of an uncomfortable train of thoughts as to how all this tracking down Moriarty business was interfering with Mary and the baby, or rather, Mary and the baby were interfering with any attempts at resuming his normal, 'normal' way of life with Sherlock.

You: "I said, do you want some tea?" Sherlock was brewing a batch of Earl Grey. He'd been forced into managing by Ms. Hudson, who finally put her foot down on being treated as a housekeeper, and had purchased a rather fancy tea maker to aid in the process.

Stranger: "Yes, yes... sorry," the doctor said quickly, softening his tone. "Please." His phone went off and he checked it again, then wearily said, "He keeps posting on the blog...."

You: Sherlock sighed. "What about this time?" He poured John a cup and brought it over, no sugar, just as the man liked.

Stranger: "Doesn't bear repeating... more taunts." John was torn between deleting the post for fear that it might be useful, but extremely reluctant to show Sherlock the crude things Moriarty had been implying in his posts about his and Sherlock's relationship or lack thereof.

You: "Let me see. There could be clues you're missing." He reached over John to set down the cup, torso hanging inches from the doctors face, then backed up to stare at John's phone.

Stranger: John closed his eyes briefly before Sherlock could notice. Because he was a soldier, and had been a medical student used to hours upon hours of surgery without the ability to so much as sit down, he was disciplined, damn it. He wasn't going to act like a damn teenager around Sherlock, especially not with Mary and the baby on the way and... "It'll just be untraceable like the other ones..."

You: "I said let me see." Sherlock snatched the device from John's hand and whirled towards the wall with the smiley face on it. He hopped onto the coffee table and froze. Why hadn't John mentioned the criminals implications? "Are you, embarr-" He looked over his shoulder to find the doctor already behind him.

Stranger: "Yes!" John said reaching for the phone but was unable to snag it back from Sherlock, particularly perched upon the coffee table as he was. "Yes, I am. Give me my phone, Sherlock, you've no right."

You: The detective blinked. His mouth gaped for a bit but then he pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyebrows. Without a word he dropped the phone into John's palms and quietly returned to the kitchen, to pitcher of tea, to think.

Stranger: "What? What is it?" John said suddenly unconcerned with his phone, "You've got that face on!" He followed the detective into the kitchen afraid of whatever he was plotting or scheming next.

You: "Nothing." Sherlock responded calmly, fixing himself a cup and stirring in a table spoon of sugar. In reality, he was remembering that night in the restaurant – at Angelo's. One of the first few nights he'd spent with John. 'It's all fine.' He recalled the soldier's words. John's diffusion when Sherlock had turned him down. Could it really be?... The detective wondered if it were even possible for John to have been so clever all this time. To hide something like that for this many years...

Stranger: "No. No." John shook his head, "Whatever you're thinking, wherever the ten steps ahead of everyone you always are have taken you. Stop... thinking this instant." John demanded unreasonably. He wished he'd never mentioned the text or had at least anticipated Sherlock's violation of privacy in snatching the phone from him.

You: "I'm..." the consulting detective paused at the expression on John's face, at the hint of blush upon the arches of his cheeks... Sherlock stared back at his cup. But... How? He didn't comprehend it, he couldn't. Why today was this finally showing? "Are you okay?" He turned to his best friend.

Stranger: "No." John gasped out. "I'm not." He felt like running away. The doctor panicked and left the kitchen trying to stand away from Sherlock's sight near the door. A little more and he really might have run out and down the stairs.

You: A beat later and Sherlock slowly wandered over to the man. His eyebrows pulled in, creating that pinch of round skin in-between them. What could he possibly say? He'd already made the deduction, he knew, but how could he rattle it off to John in his current state? For a moment, Sherlock was proud of himself for understanding that would be wrong. It was then that a knock came to the door. Mary's knock.

Stranger: John started back as if he expected something terrifying to come in through the door. /No, no. Not now... not bloody now/ Not in the middle of this with Sherlock. He turned around and pointed a finger in warning. "Don't you dare say anything."

You: Sherlock's eyes fluttered. His jaw slacked for a moment, then he followed with a slow nod. "Should I let her in?" he whispered, unsure of the protocol for situations such as these.

Stranger: "Yes, let her in! But act normal for God's sake, Sherlock. As normal as you can. We will deal with this... whatever this is... later." He hissed before turning and tried to position himself in his chair as though absolutely nothing was happening.

You: Sherlock breathed in, then pulled back the door with a perfect, fake smile. "Hello," he said to Mary then turned to John. "John, it's your wife." He wondered immediately if saying that 'word' was rubbing something in, after what had just taken place... but he couldn't be positive.

Stranger: /Wife. Ooh, you bloody bastard. There's no need to be cruel about it./ John loved Mary, he did. But... he felt for Sherlock, too. Except Sherlock had been entirely uninterested and actually entirely oblivious to it. Until now. And John really should have known better. He'd never known anyone to keep secrets from Sherlock, after all. He shot up from his chair, "Ah...Mary..." he crossed the floor and planted a kiss on her cheek.

You: Sherlock looked on as the two embraced. Mary did that characteristic tongue bite of hers while leaning back in John's arms, and while she was doing her best – a true liar – her eyes carried bags under them. She appeared worn down. The detective knew was was coming.

"Sorry Mary, I need him today," he preemptively interjected, grinning apologetically at the swollen bellied woman. “Moriarty's leaving clues on the blog. I have a few ideas, places to check out. I'll need your husbands help."

Stranger: Mary's features sharpened as she turned to Sherlock. Her smile went from the sweet smile she wore with her husband to a smirk she reserved for Sherlock ever since he'd realized the truth about her. But, they were on equal footing and always had been, she knew the truth about him perfectly well, too. "You need him today?" She said emphasizing the latter word.

You: "That's... What I said." Sherlock arched an eyebrow, trying to give nothing away to the sharp witted woman. He held his ground, knowing if he slipped up even just a bit that she'd catch him in the lie. He admired this in Mary, and despised it all the same. She was far too good at seeing through him, and he couldn't let John leave after what had just transpired.

Stranger: Mrs. Watson clucked her tongue in mock sympathy, "Oh boys..." she said, "I'd like some tea, if you don't mind, John." Which sent John running to the kitchen, grateful to be out of the way of those two. She supported her belly with a hand and turned back to Sherlock with a smile like a cat who'd gotten the cream. Then, she waddled to the detective's chair and planted herself firmly in it, and motioned for him to join her in John's chair.

You: Sherlock glanced toward the kitchen then returned his gaze to Mary. He sat in John's chair, feeling a bit out of place in it. Also, he was unhappy that he couldn't keep an eye on the doctor. Being unable to observe was of great discomfort to the consulting detective. "John, bring me mine if you would, too." He called over his shoulder, eyes remaining locked on Watson's very pregnant wife.

Stranger: "You seem shocked somehow." Mary said too low for John to hear. He probably wouldn't have heard regardless. He was making the tea in record time, uncomfortable with being caught in between Mary and Sherlock and yet uncomfortable with the idea of leaving the two by themselves for very long.

You: Sherlock tilted his head to the side, eyebrows slightly raised. "Hmm?" He crossed his legs and stared at the woman. Really, she would be better to bring along on cases than John. He hated her deductive abilities at the moment... "About?"

Stranger: "Oh, I'm sure you can work it out, Sherlock." She smiled more kindly at him now, leaning over unsteadily to pat his knee. "If it makes you feel better, you didn't give it half away as much as you know who." She arched an eyebrow and gestured slightly at the kitchen.

You: Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together. "If you're implying that I –" John set down both cups of tea on the end table next to his chair at that moment, lips pressed together in a forced smile. "Ah, thank you." Sherlock wrapped his slender fingers through the handle of his cup and took a sip, eyes slipping away from Mary's.

Stranger: "Ah, John. Pull up a chair." She said, never one to forget the little things that had meaning to people, a trait that had served her well in her past work. A client's chair, since she and Sherlock were both occupying the main seating in the room. It was her way of gently paying him back for doing the same to her several months ago. She seemed entirely too pleased with herself for John's comfort and even Sherlock seemed ruffled by her. John did as he was told, however, and sat in a chair that was decidedly not his.

You: The room fell silent for a few awkward moments, as the three of them sipped at their tea. Sherlock knew the more he said the worse things would become, yet still, he wasn't willing to let John leave. How could he get Mary to sod off? Wait, did he actually think that?... He didn't dislike Mary, in fact he cared for her greatly. But now was not a good time. Maybe not 'sod off,' then, but... Sherlock cleared his throat. "If you two need a moment I can wait." He started to lift from John's arm chair, making brief eye contact with the doctor. He realized that John wasn't ready to leave either, or he'd be protesting that they were getting no where currently, when it came to Moriarty. That him heading out for the day wouldn't matter.

Stranger: "Oh no, not at all, Sherlock. I came to see you boys because I wanted to speak to you. Both of you. I have a very interesting story to tell you." She said pointedly looking at Sherlock, the "you" was directed at him, but she turned and winked at her husband who began shaking his head. "Mary..." he began in a warning tone, "Mary, what are you up to?" He tried to hide the frantic note in his voice. She didn't seem displeased, quite the opposite, whatever she had just sussed out didn't seem to bother her, and it was too much to hope for that she hadn't sussed it out. He looked at Sherlock to try and gauge his reaction, but quickly fixed his wife with a half-'don't you dare' look, and a half-pleading, 'Please don't, not here, not now.' sort of look.

You: Sherlock slowly slunk back down into John's chair, unable to read Mary at all. A story? He'd figured what she'd been implying earlier, but a story? Sherlock glanced at John. Beads of sweat were rolling down from his hair line. He almost let the words slip, for Mary and John to go, that he could force Lestrade along for the day, but Mary began to speak before he could say a thing.

Stranger: "Oh, John, don't look so worried. You were all too happy enough to confront me with my secrets." She smiled kindly and rubbed her belly. "Sherlock was right, so you'll be not at all surprised to know – I was born in New Jersey, this isn't my accent but time and practice have made me rather good at it, and I quite like it so I'm keeping it. But, oddly enough, when I started working in Europe, my travels involved meeting another lady from Jersey with a rather brilliant accent and talking to her, well, it was... illuminating." She sipped from her cup of tea, rubbing the base of her stomach the whole time. She looked up from her drink at Sherlock trying to decide if he'd taken her meaning yet.

You: The detective kept a straight face, but didn't like where the conversation was headed. What could he do, however? He needed a diversion. Damn it, why was she doing this? Just because he wanted to keep John for the day? The doctor's expression had looked convincing enough when she'd entered the flat. Was something going on at home, between them? Dear god, human emotions were puzzling... His eyes flickered over to a baffled John, then back to Mary, finishing off her tea. A diversion. He needed a diversion.

Stranger: "You both know Irene, don't you?" Mrs. Watson said setting her cup down, her expression a mix of amusement and mock curiosity. John saw through it, though he didn't know what exactly she was playing at. He straightened his back very rigidly and couldn't help that his eyes widened at the mention of the familiar name.

"You know....you know Irene. How do you know Irene, exactly?"

You: "Yes Mary, do tell." Sherlock had begun to catch on at the mention of Miss Adler, but didn't have time to make a fully detailed deduction. There wasn't a second to waste on pondering how far she was going to take this. /The Woman.../ For a moment his thoughts wandered and he was distracted. He had felt something for her, still did in some ways, /No. Not now!/ Getting out of here with John was what needed to happen right now. Every time Mary's eyes flit to something other than the detective, he reached into his coat pocket. He knew the layout perfectly and could navigate his screen without looking, he was getting a hold of Lestrade.

Stranger: "Don't, Sherlock, I don't mean you any harm. I've tried that trick a hundred times," Mary chided. "I knew who you were before I met John, Sherlock, how could I not running in the circles that I did? You and your brother, and some of your enemies. I knew who you were before I applied for work at the clinic." She turned to John, "It was all on that flash drive. Irene told stories, stories about you both. But while she got a certain look in her eyes when she told the stories about Sherlock, and laughed about you, John, I knew there was much more to you. Why, even she could see that, even when everything she said revolved around Sherlock." She winced a little, "You probably don't need any more ego boosts, do you, though?" She joked. "I've come to set things right."

It wasn't entirely what John had meant. Though it was stupid to think of it at this exact time. John had meant, 'Do you know Irene in the way that Irene always meant when she said she 'knew' someone?' He tore his eyes off of Mary, still smugly telling them her 'story,' and looked at Sherlock questioningly, /Now what, Sherlock?/ he tried to project with his look.

You: Sherlock fingers tensed and slipped away from his phone. He didn't know what to do. He didn't know what the right thing to do was. He stared back at John, in the way he did that night on the train with the bomb, except this time he wasn't fibbing. He truly did not know what to do. Mary, she 'knew.' She'd known before Sherlock who'd only just realized this morning, and assumed Sherlock felt things for John as well. He concluded that Mary was implying Miss Adler made mention of this. He didn't want her saying it. He suddenly became entirely defensive of John, as if to think along the lines of /he was mine first./ That he wasn't going to let her be the one to say it. And, set things right? They were married, with a child on the way. What business did this story have coming out right now of all times? What was her purpose? What was the point? Sherlock abruptly stood, glaring down at Mary in a way that surprised her, John, and himself.

"No." He looked over at the doctor, eyes blazing. "This can wait." He walked straight to the man grabbed him by the wrist, yanked him from the clients chair he sat in and quickly dragged him out the door of the flat, down the stairs, and into the first cab that stopped for them.

Stranger: "Sherlock? What the hell? Did she...?" He pointed behind them in the direction of the receding flat. "Does she think I'm...?" He looked at Sherlock, frustrated at being bandied about by Moriarty's jibes, and Mary's smug revelation from her past, and the detective's working it out after snatching the phone. "What the hell is going on?!" he said loud enough to startle the cabbie. "Sorry, I'm sorry," he muttered at the driver. He set his face in his hands and sighed deeply.

You: "Do you really want to discuss this in front of him?" Sherlock spoke quietly, giving a little nod in the direction of the cab driver. The volume of the detective's voice raised a moment later, spitting out Mycroft's address, then he looked back at the doctor. "Just left on Holiday... surprisingly. We can talk there."

The rest of the drive was quiet a one, but the tension was un-waveringly high. Mary was calling and texting both of their phones but they ignored the devices. This however, caused John to miss one very important new post on his blog.

Stranger: John leaned against the window and away from Sherlock. Was Mary just acting? Did she mean to leave now? Leave with the baby? Did Sherlock know something, to try and text for help when she arrived? If Sherlock hadn't known before but knew now, why was he still pulling him along? He felt confused and didn't know enough to start piecing things together. Likely a futile effort with this sheer number of geniuses involved in everything. He felt as helpless as he did when Mycroft's black sedans pulled up to the curb by his side, and he absolutely hated it. He began to resent Sherlock, and Mary, and himself. He wished rather desperately, for the first time in a very long time since he was in Afghanistan for a drink, or a cigarette, or both.

You: The cab pulled up to Mycroft's posh home, and the two men stepped out. John gazed up at the cream brushed building in awe, with a face that Sherlock read as thinking, /I've never been here before/ which for some reason caused the detective to smirk in amusement. In fact, Sherlock hadn't been here in ages either.

They made it over to the entrance, and Sherlock turned to face a retina scanner. It accepted, and the double doors unlatched with audible clunks. "After you." He gestured for John to head in before him.

Stranger: John stepped inside carefully, feeling much as he would in a museum, afraid to upset anything around him or touch a thing. He glanced about in fascination, he had assumed Mycroft's home would be positively Spartan, but this was the opposite. This was in the best taste possible. He turned to look at Sherlock. "You tell me where to go, I'm scared of being picked up off the curb every day for the rest of my life if I do something I'm not supposed to..."

You: Sherlock chuckled at that, glad to see that things were calming down. That John had retained his sense of humor through the stressful events of the morning. "To be honest," the detective let his words trail off. Eyes flitting about the entry way. "Mycroft has done some upgrading." He turned to a hallway on his left. "I believe the sitting room is this way."

Sherlock walked ahead of John, coat flaring out behind him as it always did. What John couldn't see was how Sherlock's posture was ever so slightly more rigid. That this hands were a bit clammy, so he held them in his pockets. That his adam's apple bobbed as they made it to the room that... Sherlock's eyebrows shot up high, then scrunched together. Why the hell had Lestrade been here? He shook his head slightly, not wanting to begin that series of deductions at this time, and sat in a chair that hadn't been used much... just in case of... something. John plopped next to him, and they stared at one another.

Stranger: "All right, Sherlock. Step by step. Like you were explaining a case to me. Please." He made sure Sherlock was looking at him, to emphasize the seriousness of the request. "Start from the beginning and walk me through it." His phone kept buzzing and he assumed it was Mary, so he didn't check it and certainly didn't think of looking at his blog at a time like this. He swallowed, sensing it might all come out suddenly, but at this rate he'd almost rather it did than having everyone and their mother use it to make him squirm like this.

You: Sherlock breathed in slowly, and exhaled even slower. "Well..." He wanted to look away but didn't. He was uncomfortable, and was somehow willing to admit that to himself, but John deserved more respect than that... "This morning, your phone. On the blog... Moriarty." Sherlock tried to be vague, he had a sense that it would soften any blow about to land. "The mentions, taunts, about.... us." The detective almost gulped but stopped himself. He breathed again, noting John's widening pupils, but returned his focus to the conversation. "I figured..." He shook his head. This was much harder than it should be, which took him aback. He'd never been shy with the doctor before, so why now? "When I went to the kitchen I recalled that night at the restaurant. I thought you were hinting at something, you denied it. No – I mean. Explained that what I'd said wasn't the case..." He suddenly wanted to flat out ask the man, but refrained. "Moriarty was saying that... You..." Sherlock wasn't quite able to do it. And felt that he was betraying John somehow. He hadn't wanted Mary to say it. He wanted to say it. He had to be the one to say it. It concerned him, it was how John felt, about him. And then all too suddenly he realized, "John, I don't want to make this deduction." 

Sherlock's lips formed a small, sympathetic smile. "If you want to say something to me, that's your decision. If not, that's also your decision." The room fell silent, leaving only the air being circulated by the central heater to fill the void. John's face bloomed bright red. Sherlock knew, but... he couldn't force the subject. He just couldn't. Not after everything. Not to John Watson.

Stranger: John closed his eyes and shook his head before sighing deeply. He couldn't look at Sherlock if he was going to say it. He thought for a while and then pointed as if beginning but remained silent. "What am I supposed to do with that, Sherlock?” he finally managed. “You've clearly already made the deduction and anything I say now leaves me an utter cock." He softened a little, "I'm married, Sherlock. There's no point to denying anything to you if you already know. Yes. Yes, for ages. But now there's my wife, and my daughter. Although to be honest, I don't know where Mary stands on any of this." He felt absolutely drained of energy. This didn't go quite the way it had the last time he'd had a similar conversation, under entirely different circumstances, with a not entirely different person, but he pushed that out of his mind, no point to that anymore. He let his hands fall to his lap. "I understand if it makes you uncomfortable, Sherlock, I don't have to come back to the flat..."

You: "No!" Sherlock's heart threw itself against his rib cage. "No, John. No. Not..." His blood was racing, he felt dizzy, nearly drugged even. "I just meant that..." Sherlock groaned and placed a dewy palm to his forehead. His own cheeks were hot now, and he wanted to hide his face entirely. He took a few deep breaths, not looking at John, eyes closed, completely unaware of anything going on outside of his head. Part of him wanted to slink away into his mind palace, another part wasn't sure what it wanted... "John," Sherlock's voice cracked. "I'm... Dear, God!" He bolted from his seat, faced away and took a few steps. "I'm not bothered." He whirled toward the doctor.

Stranger: "You're doing a good impression of being bothered..." John began. Unless of course that was...Oh God. Oh God. Moriarty's snide remark about topping or bottoming had embarrassed him, too. And this... maybe this wasn't discomfort at John's admission, "Oh my God. Sherlock. Oh My God." He recoiled, covering his mouth and furiously shaking his head while saying 'no' over and over like a mantra. "Why? How? You said, Sherlock, you said you were... oh god-!"

You: Sherlock stood there blinking furiously. "Married to my work...?" He finished John's sentence. "A tentative statement, I thought you would have assumed. Much like saying, 'I'm single,' or 'In a relationship,' or 'ill,' or 'healthy,' or..." Sherlock was exasperated, but trailed off. "It was what I was then, at that time. That didn't mean it wasn't subject to change." Something inside the consulting detective caused the words to fly from his lips. "It wasn't a statement of my..." Sherlock's own pupils were dilated now, filled with fluster and embarrassment. He couldn't finish the sentence. It wasn't that he hadn't pondered everything people said about himself and the doctor, or wondered out of curiosity. He'd never minded, it was only John that ever seemed bothered. Never once did Sherlock even comment on the remarks other people made about them. Ms. Hudson especially made remarks all the time, and John got angry and denied them, but Sherlock had remained silent. He hadn't wasted much time with the idea before, because John hadn't seemed interested. Despite every bad trait the odd man had, he wasn't one to force something of that extent on another. But now that it had come out, and in such a non-convoluted way, as if it hadn't ever been a secret... Sherlock set a hand to his face and groaned.

Stranger: "Yeah, I feel much the same way, mate." John said in response to his grumble. "And what does Mary want then?... To prove that she guessed it even before she met me? Irene said it to me, Irene almost made me say it out loud to her. They must have talked about it... what's going to happen now?" His mentioning Mary again reminded him of his phone. He started looking through the texts from her, assuring him that it would be all right, that she wasn't upset and then a final one that said in all capital letters:

'CHECK THE BLOG. -MW'

"Great, and now Mary's apparently seen the post," he said believing she'd meant the original one that had started the whole bloody ordeal.

You: Sherlock stared at John, and his voice almost sighed, "I don't know what happens now." He began to sit down where he'd moved to, then remembered what chair was behind him and returned to the doctor. "You're married, with a child on the way." He felt defeated.

In the past hour or so, so much had transpired. It was almost like a short story, on fast forward, and now was the tragic conclusion. "Shakespearean," Sherlock muttered. "Well, maybe not that bad." He was talking to himself. He felt like he'd been cheated. He also felt a twinge of anger at John. Denying it all this time... Not reading into Sherlock's statement in the restaurant... At himself for being an idiot. He had deducted it. He KNEW it then. His mind was so busy with the case at that time that he'd pushed it aside. It was all wrong, and unfair, and he couldn't turn back time. He felt a hint of moisture swell in his teal eyes and let out a short pant, followed by a weak chuckle. The sadness in his tone was so apparent that it startled him.

Stranger: "Sherlock, why didn't you say anything? If you'd known, if you had always known..." John felt more than slightly angry all of a sudden. "If you can tell this kind of thing about people then why didn't you say something before the baby, and before Mary, and before you fell off that bloody roof, Sherlock?! You didn't tell me that then because you assumed, and you didn't tell me about this because you assumed and I...." John forced himself to look away from the detective, not wanting to see him so sad. He swallowed thickly and gritted out. "I would have jumped right after you, or followed you to Serbia or wherever...." To avoid looking, he fiddled idly with his phone... then suddenly, sat bolt upright. "Sherlock..." He started out of his chair and thrust the new blog post in his face. "Sherlock, what does it mean?"

You: Sherlock on the verge of actual, emotional human tears, snapped into an entirely different mind set the moment his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the screen. "It means we need to get out of here, right now!" Sherlock shoved his hand into John's, sprinting as fast as his long legs could carry him. He was nearly dragging the doctor, who was having trouble keeping up with his pace, out the doors when a low rumbling began to sound at the base of Mycroft's mansion. They'd barely made it into the courtyard when the explosion fully took, and were sent flying forward by the blast into decorative rocks and shrubbery. "John!" Sherlock lifted the doctor at his shoulders, grabbed a wrist and pressed. Alive, but unconscious. His ears were ringing and he staggered upright to gaze at the half standing ruble that was the remainder of Mycroft's home. As he began to turn back towards John his legs collapsed out from under him. His eyes went black not but a moment later, and he fainted.

"Brother dear," Mycroft called to Sherlock in his sleep, and the detective's eyes fluttered briefly before shooting open. He flung himself upright in the hospital bed, threatening to yank out the IV stuck firmly in the crease of his arm. "John?!" he spat out before falling onto his back, head pounding.

Stranger: John dreamed but even in his dream he was disgusted with himself for having such dreams. Him and Sherlock tied together side by side in Serbia. Him and Sherlock on the roof defeating Moriarty so he'd never have to leave at all. Him and Sherlock at the flat, no mention of Mary at all. Mary. Mary and the baby and him all together without Sherlock. His daughter on Sherlock's lap learning Latin dinosaur names. But that was wrong, it was all wrong. Him underneath Sherlock, like the bastard Moriarty had implied. But he wasn't some bloody teenager to be having these uncontrollable dreams, and they hurt all the more when he was able to snap out of it. But he found himself unable to open his eyes long enough to stay awake. Jesus, his head hurt.... and he couldn't help but sink back into the stupor, though he slept fitfully.

You: "Where's John?" Sherlock moaned, rubbing fingers though his dark curls as he fully regained consciousness. His head felt like it was spinning. He laid an elbow on the bed to steady himself and attempted to look up at Mycroft. His brother smiled, that usual smile with no real emotion behind it.  
"Here, St. Bart's. Though in his own room, obviously." Mycroft perched at the foot of Sherlock's bed. Watching his brother fidget about to right himself.  
"Fine?" Sherlock asked hurriedly.  
"If he weren't, would I be so calm?” The politician rolled his eyes. “Do you give me no credit at all?"  
"Shut up." Sherlock flopped back down and squirmed in his sheets. He was angry that John got hurt, and blamed himself for it. It was his idea, going to Mycroft's place. He should have kept an eye on the blog. How stupid. He had been so stupid.  
"You know," Mycroft began. "I should blame you."  
Sherlock swung him self upright again, eyes glaring at his older brother. "Sod your house."  
Mycroft's jaw dropped a bit, but he contained his words.  
"Shut up." Sherlock repeated.  
Mycroft smirked at the remark.  
"Don't even start. I don't want to hear it."  
"Well -" Mycroft shrugged.  
"No,” Sherlock cut him off. “Shut up or I'll begin making deductions about Lestrade."  
The politician frowned at that.  
"So much for you not having a 'gold fish.'"  
"Sherlock –" Mycroft's voice was a warning.  
"Is he conscious?" This sibling rivalry bit had gone on long enough, and his focus shifted back to the doctor.  
"On and off. No major wounds. Might end up with a few scars."  
That didn't matter to Sherlock, at least in the sense that scars on John weren't 'off-putting,' and he was a bit relieved, albeit still furious with himself for letting those injuries happen, but, "When can I go see him?"

Stranger: "I don't care, John!" Mary raised her voice in frustration. "I don't!"  
"Don't you dare! Don't any of you dare to presume, assume, deduce, or anything about me ever again!" he shouted back at her.  
"John! If you're upset because you think Irene and I..."  
"What the hell does that have anything to do with it? I don't care about that! Don't finish your sentence, Mary, there's absolutely no need."  
"You're over-complicating all this, John, and don't raise your voice to me. I'm pregnant."  
"That does not..." But John did lower his voice, "That doesn't mean I have to lower my voice and you can't just waltz into his flat and announce that you'd like us to..." He quickly grew tired from sustaining the outburst and he moaned, holding his head.  
Mary approached the bed and held his hand. "You can say it. It's all right... You don't have to live with this, like it was some terrible secret."  
John looked absolutely bewildered at his wife and gave up, sinking back into the hospital bed.

You: It'd been about thirty minutes since Mycroft left, and Molly came by to find Sherlock's room barricaded with a row of hospital beds. They were laid on their sides, stacked all the way to the other side of the wall so the detective couldn't force the door open. She got staff to help remove them, and when she entered the room found Sherlock starring out his window, ironically down at the place he'd jumped three years ago. "Sherlock?" Her meek voice called.  
"Yes, Molly. Lovely choice of room," he quickly commented.  
"Sorry... Um."  
"Mycroft," was all that Sherlock said.  
"Right..." Molly thought to herself that Sherlock's older brother must be even more eccentric than Sherlock...  
"He wouldn't let me out," the detective continued. "Of course he didn't put the beds there himself, he wouldn't be bothered to endure such labor..." he was just ranting at this point.  
"To see John?" Molly backtracked a bit.  
Her obvious statement annoyed him, but instead of commenting on it he sighed. "Yes."  
"He's doing better. Mary's there to comfort him now, of course only family can -"  
Sherlock growled through a row of grit teeth. Who knew what that wife of his was up to now. Sherlock hated that she could be with him, when he couldn't.  
"Is there something?..." Molly started to say but was hurriedly cut off.  
"No," Sherlock said almost too harshly. He'd come to care for Molly, at least as a 'friend,' and tried to be more conscious about what he said to her. But right now, well... his mind wasn't in the right place. "I just... I'll stay here until tomorrow."  
Molly's eyebrows pulled together at his declaration. "But, you're to be discharged in a couple -"  
Sherlock turned to meet her eyes, his own pleading. "Please."  
…How could she say no to that face? "I'll see what I can do." The mousy woman left the room, her mind a flurry of perplexed thoughts; about Sherlock, and John...

Stranger: "Sherlock?" Mary had taken the opportunity now that Molly was gone, and that no one yet had time to replace the impressive barricade of beds. She peeked into the room before allowing herself in, waddling over to Sherlock's bedside, "I heard you were doing better..." She was genuinely concerned about him, and she'd gotten nowhere with John. She reached out a hand to touch one of his tentatively.

You: Sherlock jerked away instantly, going so far as to even scoot back a bit on the mattress. "You're to blame, too." He glared at her, legs crossed, sitting atop the middle of his hospital bed. "If you hadn't dropped by, hadn't tried to force it out of him..." The detective scowled at her before looking out the window, again.

Stranger: "For that matter, if you had only told him before you'd made him believe you'd jumped. Nice room, by the way. Or if he had told you the night he shot the cabbie, or if Irene had gotten him to say it to to you, or you to him. Or, maybe if his parents hadn't been so awful to Harry, he wouldn't have grown up refusing to accept it about himself. Or maybe if the Major had been kinder to him. If, if, if, Sherlock. Someone had to say something, you don't live with him, it was eating at him." She crossed her arms as best she could.

You: "And you thought dragging it out of him, when your child's nearly due was the best course of action?" Sherlock's head shook in anger. "When he see's his daughter, your daughter, the child you've conceived together..." Sherlock paused for a moment. "When that moment comes, the last thing he'll be thinking of is me." He leaned in toward Mrs. Watson now. "Maybe it's just because you're pregnant, irrational, hormonal. Not thinking clearly." He let out a long, drawn out breath. "Mary. He would have repressed those feelings. Instead they're all stirred up now and neither of us is allowed to act on them, let alone let them play out."

Stranger: "Sexist. Awfully sexist of you, Sherlock. You should be proud, this is what Sholto did to him, too. Shut him out for his 'own good' and left him a hundred, carefully edited mind you, stories and the desire to dance around him like a puppy just as you said on the rare occasion he does decide to come back into John's life. Only to threaten to die at the wedding, again, for John's own good." Mary shook her head and shrugged. "You're not using me as an excuse to put this off any more than you have. I don't care. I don't. He's getting discharged and so are you, and we're all going to the flat and we're going to sort this out. I don't care if I have to get your brother involved, and half the police force involved. I will shoot you again, Sherlock Holmes."

You: "No." Sherlock called her bluff. "You wont shoot me. And Mycroft likely doesn't care enough to get involved. Lestrade will sod off when I bring up his likelihood, no certainty, of dating my brother - yes interesting that, isn't it? - and I have enough blackmail on Donovan and Anderson that they wouldn't even attempt to take your side. Could ruin their lives sooooooo thoroughly." Sherlock threw his head back while making that remark. "Mary, this isn't the time," his tone quickly turned from sarcastic to harsh. "Moriarty blew up Mycroft's mansion. Did John fail to tell you why we're here?" Sherlock stared her down. "John being 'gay' for me isn't priority right now."

Stranger: "You are so completely brilliant about some things, and so utterly thick about others. How do you think babies work, Sherlock?" She almost whined in utter frustration with both of them, but especially Sherlock. "See, sense! Sherlock. If you don't come out with this now, then it will be too easy to drift apart when he's busy with the baby. We love the baby immensely, but don't you see? They complicate things. It can't be helped. I don't understand why this is such an issue. He clearly needs you, and you act like you have to sneak around me or borrow him from me. You could have died, one or both of you. And you'd have died like this, not knowing or doing anything about it. Doesn't it bother you, Sherlock?" He loves you, he's forgiven us both, how could either of us deny him what he needed?"

You: "Because it wont change anything!" Sherlock slammed his fists onto the bed. "He can't have us both. We can't share him. We both know it wouldn't work. Feelings for me or not, he will end up with you. It's you. It's too late to be anything else." Moisture pooled in the bottoms of the detective's eye lids, and threatened to spill over as he glowered at Mary.

Stranger: Mary also felt on the verge of tears. "This isn't my fault! You two were as stupid about this long before I ever appeared. You can't decide this for him and neither can I. Would it be so awful? If we did share him? When has anything about any of us ever been normal, Sherlock, please!"

"Don't." John said from the doorway. He'd been fitted with a brace for the knee that he'd damaged in the explosion and had to be repaired. He limped in on a cane. "Don't you two stand there and work out some schedule to share me like I'm a sodding video rental." He nodded to Sherlock, even though he was angry at what he assumed he was seeing, "Are you all right?"

You: Sherlock hopped from his bed, completely ignoring that Mary was still in the room and crossed over to John. "Mycroft said I couldn't see you until tomorrow."

Stranger: "Sod him. And his house. Has Lestrade been by? He burst into my room asking about Mycroft and then left in a huff. Looking for you, I guess." Mary rolled her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Anyway, I heard you two. You can't just talk about me like I'm a library book, checking me out and in between the two of you, Sherlock. You can't..." He slumped against the wall, he wasn't quite ready to be walking about yet.

You: "That was not my idea." Sherlock's head spun to give Mary a harsh look, then returned to face John. "Are you all right?" He emphasized the word 'you,' then offered the doctor a hand.

Stranger: "I'm fine. I just want to go home." He rejected Sherlock's palm, he certainly wasn't about to touch him after all of this and in front of Mary. So he used the wall to help himself to a nearby chair where he collapsed from the effort. "Just want to go home..." he repeated, exhausted both physically and mentally.

You: Sherlock felt hurt. He tried to deduce why John hadn't let him help, but couldn't come to a clear conclusion. Damned human emotions, always tricky, never sensible. "Home." Sherlock repeated abruptly, shooting Mary a pointed look. "Exactly." He spun toward the door, leaving the two of them in his room, rushing out of the hospital and into the rainy evening without a destination in mind.

"You couldn't have called me?!" Lestrade slammed a fist into Mycroft's desk. "Oh, sod, ow! Christ!" He cradled his injured hand against his chest, tears jutting from his lower lids.  
"There were matter's to be taken care of,” the politician said simply, lacing his own hands in his lap.  
"And you couldn't have called on the way?" Lestrade wasn't having any of his boyfriend's nonsense.  
"I had a lot on my mind,” he emphasized as his phone buzzed in his suit pocket.  
'Danger night. - JW'

Stranger: He'd meant the flat. Of course he'd meant the flat. John had gotten himself discharged from the hospital and was riding in the most awkward, silent cab ride he'd ever had. Even more awkward than his ride to Mycroft's house with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson let them in and after fussing over them with tea, and biscuits, she went downstairs. Outside, it had began to rain in earnest, pouring buckets.

'Sherlock. Please. We're at the flat. Please come home. -JW'

You: Sherlock ducked under an awning to check the message that'd rumbled in his pocket. There was one from Mycroft he'd missed as well.  
'Don't be foolish. -MH'  
Sherlock breathed out his frustration. John was at the flat, with Mary. Mary. He wanted nothing to do with her right now. In fact, maybe disappearing this time for good would truly be what was best. He pondered the idea, hunched up under his coat, and walked a distance before coming to a small convenience store. Cigarettes sounded absolutely delightful. He paid the clerk then returned outside to light one up. He was surprised Mycroft hadn't located him by now. Probably to do with the down poor of rain, skewing the sight of his cameras. He chucked softly through an inhale, remembering John's clueless mention of Lestrade, then shook his head. How did the detective miss that for so long, as well? Was he slipping? Possibly... Even Moriarty had been able to gain an upper hand.

Sherlock shrunk down into a crouch on the sidewalk, the soles of his shoes squeezing out a sound against the concrete. He felt lonely, sad, lost. It was the first time he'd truly been alone with his thoughts the entire day, and what a day it had been. His mind wandered back to John's 'confession,' and he could feel the tension swell in his chest. How could things have ended up like this? He sighed and stepped out into the rain, allowing it to extinguish the tail end of his smoke. Alone, he stood on the dark pavement... letting his tears blend in with the deluge. Finally allowing himself an emotional release.

Stranger: 'Sherlock. I'm worried sick. Please, either tell me where you are, or come home. -JW'

John texted frantically in between studiously deleting more recent blog posts made by Moriarty. Didn't care about their usefulness, could simply not take any more of this misery. Mary had fallen asleep on the couch and he'd covered her with the blanket, and placed the Union Jack under her.

'Tell me. Please. I'll come to you. Don't do this again, Sherlock. -JW'

'Your pet doesn't play well with others. He won't answer his e-mails but you looked so sweet running hand in hand today, I can never stay angry with you. -JM'

You: Sherlock wasn't in the mood for Moriaty's taunts... But he'd been right while chatting with Mary earlier. John's feelings, his feelings, feelings in general... They weren't priority. He read the message from Moriarty again and again, trying to decide what the best course of action was while pacing about. If he had John come to him, Mary and the baby and Ms Hudson would still be in danger. He couldn't leave John there, though, either. He tapped on his screen, sending off a quick message to both Mycroft and Lestrade.

'I know you're both currently homeless. But find a place or two to round up everyone at, and I mean everyone. Somewhere absolutely safe. Moriarty will make a move tonight. -SH'

Lestrade read the text first, then whirled in a fit towards Mycroft. "You told 'em?!"  
"He finally deduced it." Mycroft checked his phone to see exactly why Greg was throwing a tantrum.  
"But how?! We were so careful!"  
"Well it looks like the cat's out of the bag..." The politician shrugged.  
"That ain't an answer!"

Stranger: The call set John's phone off and Mary's at the same time, too. Mycroft. Everyone was being picked up and taken somewhere. He looked out the window to see the trademark black sedan. Moriarty's posts were certainly increasing in frequency. He rushed to wake up Mary and bundled her in her coat. He quickly gathered both Sherlock's and his laptops and walked her outside with Ms. Hudson. "I'm not going anywhere. He'll come here, eventually. Just take them somewhere safe." He stood his ground until the person Mycroft had sent finally acquiesced, figuring it was better to return with two of his charges than none. Mary held his hand through the open window of the car as it took off. He did love her, really and truly. But there wasn't any time for that right now.

'Your brother's rounding everyone up. Mary's gone with his driver. Ms. Hudson, too. I'm at the flat. I'm staying at the flat. -JW'

You: Sherlock pressed both his palms to his face. "No, John! No!" How could he be so stupid?! Sherlock waved down a cab – which surprisingly stopped for the sopping mess that he currently was – and promised to pay double the fare for the inconvenience.

The drive was taking far too long, and the detective was tempted badly to reply, to send another message to Mycroft and Lestrade, to call and yell at Mary for not dragging her idiot of a husband along with her and his landlady. He couldn't risk doing any of the above. Jim Moriarty could potentially be reading his messages – Sherlock couldn't be too sure, not with John's life – and didn't need to give away his heading back to 221B.

When he finally arrived he slammed through the door, up the stairs, and burst into the flat. John was there, sitting in his chair, completely unharmed.

Stranger: "Sherlock! Christ! You look a mess!" He limped to him, awkwardly balanced on his cane. "Where did you go? I thought for sure after they sent for me and Mary that you'd been kidnapped, or something had happened." He caught himself in the midst of his concern and reminded himself to do a better damn job of hiding his feelings. He cleared his throat and looked down, "I'm glad you're all right..."

You: Sherlock panted, exasperated, a sob threatening to come through with his labored breaths. They needed to get out of here, now. Sherlock ignored the doctor and sent a text to Mycroft. 'Send another car. -SH' Now all they had to do was wait.

Sherlock stared at John, wanting to collapse. His mind wanted to shut down, to not think. He had to say something though, but what? "I... Um..." He was no good at this. The two men stared at one another for a few moments, Sherlock deeply pondering what a normal person would do in this situation. Then he realized that a normal person wouldn't be in a situation like this. Then he wondered what a normal person might do when confronted by someone who loved them, then shook his head. No, it was Mary who'd said that, not John. He stared at the doctor, the deduction was plain as day, but something tugged the detective away from making it. This was too much. He suddenly reached out a hand, offering once again to help John stand.

Stranger: "Sherlock, it's about to all go to hell, isn't it?" he said eyeing the detective's palm warily. "That's why Mycroft is taking us to safe places? You're expecting Moriarty to try something tonight." He still refused to make contact with the impossibly smooth skin, that always felt like butter on his rougher hands on the rare occasion they touched. If Moriarty was going to make a move, then absolutely nothing was certain as far as John was concerned. With Mary out of the way, he felt free to stand here by Sherlock's side, not allowing him to face Moriarty alone as he had on the rooftop. "You tried to get rid of me again..." He narrowed his eyes and tried to straighten as much as possible, to show that he didn't need Sherlock's help.

You: Sherlock sighed, remaining silent once again. It was too long a day. Too many revelations. Though something struck him mentally, something Mary had said in the hospital before John interjected. About how they both could have died, without anything having been resolved. Sherlock stared at the other mans hands. One on his cane, the other stiff at his side. They had nothing to do while waiting for Mycroft, other than to wait. Sherlock took a step toward John, giving him an almost glare, then took another couple so that he ended up inches away from being right up against the doctor. Slowly, Sherlock's right arm lifted – they didn't break eye contact – headed for John's side, – they still didn't break eye contact – and carefully, and as gently as he could, slid his slender fingers into the doctors hand.

Stranger: John gaped at the palm that came into his, and with a look of horror stared up at Sherlock. "Why? What are you doing? Do you have to make this harder than it already is?" But he didn't remove his hand, either. He merely stood there with his face drawn tightly in a mask of confusion and hurt, trying desperately not to give himself away more than he had already done today. "Why, Sherlock? Why try to send me away again when you know, you know perfectly well..." he couldn't continue. "And why this?" He clenched his fingers around his hand, "Why now?"

You: Sherlock couldn't respond with words, his mind was shot, fried even. He gripped his fingers around John's hand and began to pant short sad breaths. The tears found their way, and stung the already reddened flesh with their salt. Sherlock didn't have an answer. He didn't know. The only thing he did know was that he wanted to be here, in this moment – painful streams of tears rolling down his cheeks – more than anything else. He leaned forward, his sobs becoming more audible, and rested his forehead on John's shoulder.

Stranger: "I know..." John said using the arm that wasn't on the cane to press him closer. He held him there for a while until he too was on the verge of tears and felt a thick lump in his throat. He could feel himself trembling, hopefully Sherlock would think it was from the effort of supporting both of them. It was odd to say, but there was no brain space left to even think of Moriarty. John had an impending sense of doom, but he couldn't tell whether it was because of Sherlock's anticipatory move, or whether it was because he'd felt his entire world change in the space of a day. He patted the other man's curls and sighed deeply. "This is so stupid, Sherlock..."

You: Sherlock took John's words as some sort of queue and embraced him tightly, lifting the shorter man upward a bit, and supporting his body weight completely. He slid one of his palms up to the nape of John's neck, fingers strung across the back of his skull, and the other cradled the small of the doctors back. Sherlock held the gesture for a long pause, then reminded himself that they were pressed for time. That this moment – or series of, rather – would soon be interrupted by one of Mycroft's men, and the Moriarty situation would once again take precedence. It was the first coherent thought the detective had had in a while. He set John back down on his feet – the doctors heels gently finding the floor of the flat – and pulled away once he was sure John was steady with his cane. Sherlock wanted to do something else with their time, but what? He couldn't believe that he'd impulsively done what he just had to begin with, but he still desired more...

Stranger: John squirmed a little, feeling like a toddler being picked up until he was settled down, but as if by accord, quickly realized that their priorities would have to be re-shifted. But shifting priorities every day and putting it off another day had gotten them in this mess. "Sherlock, what's going to happen? Every time there's been a major confrontation it's always been face to face. Either you're going to him, or he's coming to you. Tell me I'm wrong, Sherlock, tell me I'm wrong if you dare. It's clear that he's obsessed with you and he wants to... to see you. You were never going to any safe house. You were just going to ask for us to be removed so you didn't have another sniper situation. Right?" He grew very serious.

You: Sherlock frowned a bit, at John's choice of spending their remaining time, but then finally responded, "I don't know. This isn't the same as the roof top." He didn't like their reverse in rolls. John being rational and deductive, and himself being consumed by emotion. "I don't have much of a plan. I've been distracted... by everything. Please believe me." It was truly as if they could see one another from the other's point of view. It was unnerving, and worrying. The detective suddenly felt somehow... rejected. It was then that the door bell rung. The pressure and length of time that the button had been pressed told him it was Mycroft's people. "I'll go with you." Sherlock told John sincerely. "We can figure it out together."

Stranger: "Don't open that door,” the doctor quickly replied. “Don't make a move. Not until you promise me one thing. There will be no handshake pretending you're coming right back, there will be no 'keeping me in the dark for my own good.' " /Come on, old soldier. One last hurrah for the famed bravery of Captain Watson./ "Because, I swear, I'll sit in this flat and drink tea until it blows up, or Moriarty decides to move in, or whatever the bloody hell is happening right now! I don't know. I never know. But, Sherlock Holmes, you won't answer the door or send a text, or do anything..." It was somehow easier to grit his teeth and spit it out in false anger than to say it in front of Mary, or allow himself to melt in Sherlock's hand like before. It had taken the night before a horrendously gruesome mission for him and his Major to confess it years and years ago... and he'd try the same tack now. So he pointed a finger in Sherlock's face or as close as he could get to it. "Until you promise. Sodding promise. That if you're going to make a move, or leave, or die, I will be next to you. Because I love you, you arrogant, obtuse idiot." His voice threatened to falter and he ground his cane down hard to steady himself. "Promise. Right now, look me in the eyes. Promise."

You: Sherlock was speechless. Absolutely speechless, and his mouth was gaping widely, and John looked so stern. Through the detective's brain flashed images of Mary, images of what their child might look like based on her and John's combined facial structures and height. Images of various memorable moments, and mundane ones, that the two men had shared over the past years. Images of what Moriarty might do to them all tonight. Images of Mycroft, his antisocial pain in the arse of a brother finding love – god, love – with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Images of that night he had spend with Irene Adler, after saving her life. Images of Molly. Anderson. Donovan. Images... Images of it all. Of everything that had happened during the years that he'd met and known John Watson. And for a brief moment, Sherlock didn't care about the rules anymore. He didn't care about Mary, or the baby, or anything outside of this very room. He was selfish, egotistical, arrogant, ignorant, and didn't care about trying to hide it anymore. He felt a line pop into his brain that only he wouldn't realize was cheesy. And as he began to say it he did realize, but didn't care. "I could say it back," he started. "I could promise too." He stepped toward the doctor. "But..." He came closer to John. "I've been reliably informed that actions speak louder than words... So then..." For a moment he was truly going to back out. John was piecing together just what Sherlock had meant, and the changing expression in the shorter mans face was showing each step of realization along the way. Sherlock's brain jarred itself back to the night Lestrade ragged on Anderson, in a drunken state at the Christmas party. About one of Anderson's most ridiculous theories. 'Sherlock-bond,' as Lestrade and most of the Yard liked to call it. Yes, that. Exactly that. Sherlock placed hands on either side of John's cheeks, fingers reaching up into his hair and onto his temples. His face turned, angled in... and, their lips connected. Sherlock somehow managing to press with just the right amount of pressure.

Stranger: John's heart felt like it really might stop at the moment. It came perilously close, more than it had at the explosion, more than it had at waking up in the hospital. It felt like one great throb, and then there was a moment where it didn't seem to remember to beat anymore. The door bell rung distantly in the background and the pounding of urgent fists at the door also seemed to echo from somewhere much further than just outside the flat. 'Could say it back...' Did that mean...? And before he knew it Sherlock was bent down impossibly low it seemed and grabbing him. And John just tilted back and allowed himself to be kissed, too in shock to return the pressure even a little or to do anything except make a strangled noise of surprise from behind closed lips. /Oh God. Oh God. Oh God./ he thought throughout the whole kiss. But yes, to die for this man, to live for this man, to go to hell and back for this man. He'd have done it even if Sherlock had reacted with disgust at what had been revealed about him, but now after this, he felt like growling, the urge to fight and bleed and die for this man was so strong, almost like it was being reprogrammed somewhere deeper in his brain. And then he pressed furiously into Sherlock to the point where he felt like he couldn't breathe. He had absolutely no idea how long they held it there, but out of the vaguest corner of his eyes he saw the familiar outline of a man who couldn't seem to casually lean on his umbrella as was his custom.


	2. “And One Night”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Written as an RP with 'bakerstirregular0,' prompted by myself on Omegle.))
> 
> **If there are any errors I apologize. I went through and edited, but may have missed stuff here and there.***

You: "It was John." Sherlock leapt back, startled by the sudden appearance of his brother. "I mean..." The detective couldn't actually blame the doctor, but it was the first thing that popped into his mind upon seeing Mycroft, jaw hung low at his door with the hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

Stranger: John coughed embarrassed. It was no time to laugh, but just as in the other occasions where they’d laughed inappropriately while beset with danger, he couldn't contain the hysterical giggle that escaped from him whilst he looked resolutely down at the floor. He felt much like a teenager who’d been caught with a man’s daughter. He felt the tips of his ears turn red which only worsened when Sherlock apparently tried to blame it on him. He ventured a glance up at Mycroft and then to Sherlock, and then back to Mycroft and then to Sherlock. Seeing that neither were dispelling any of the awkwardness, he closed his eyes tightly and announced, “Right. We should get a move on.” He checked for the pistol at his side for the 15th time since they’d come to get Mary, before beginning to hobble out of the flat on his cane.

You: Sherlock again was at a loss for words. A loss over what to do. How to respond... Mycroft gazed at his younger brother, lips turned inward, forcing themselves to pull back, to hide a grin. “Shut up,” was all that Sherlock could muster. Stupid Mycroft ruining it. Stupid Mycroft. Stupid Mycroft. Sherlock pushed passed the politician and strode up next to John, who was hobbling on the steps. The detective didn't care. They still had until they reached the front door. He scooped an arm around the doctor's waist to steady him, and began to lead him down the stairs slowly.

Stranger: “Sherlock. Please.” John said, and it was meant to be, 'Please don’t start groping me in public, I’m still married for Christ’s sake, Sherlock' but he didn't finish the sentence and allowed himself to be steadied. Apparently, he’d never really been fooling anyone and this touch could easily be justified as Sherlock simply helping him down the stairs. He heard a multitude of phones go off with various sorts of alerts and reached for his own phone as they descended, leaning against the taller man to be able to use his right hand to fish it out of his pocket, as he supposed everyone else was.

'Run, run, run! As fast as you can. But you can’t outrun me, even if big brother’s the Iceman. -JM'

And then a second text clearly part of a mass text but not addressed to John personally, received as he was still reading the first text.

'Pet’s got a bad leg. It’s really better to put them out of their misery in these cases. -JM'

You: “What do they say?” Sherlock asked while glancing over to look at the screen. His face got close to John's in this movement, and the detective caught himself more interested in that fact than in the texts at all. Actually, he pressed his body into John's even further, the warmth of the doctor inviting, along with his scent. John's cologne, mixed with traces of his shampoo and conditioner... /Not now./ Sherlock reminded himself, then realized yet again that now might be the last time... His eyes traced over the texts a couple of times, then he blinked. He'd finally processed their words. No real clues. He began walking with John, again. They had nearly reached the front door.

Stranger: "Mean anything?" John said keenly aware of Sherlock coming so close to him. Over the years, they'd gotten more free with their touches. John had certainly patched up Sherlock enough times to not be uncomfortable touching him in certain circumstances, and Sherlock with his distinct lack of personal boundaries often didn't mind helping John pull a jumper on or off if he was moving too slowly for Sherlock's taste. But now that they'd... well, done that... every slight touch had a whole new layer of meaning that John had expressly forbidden himself from thinking of before. /For Christ's sake!/ he scolded himself, it was hardly the time for any of this. "Any clues? Trust you to pick something up about the way he angled his fingers while texting or something," he huffed.

You: Sherlock turned his face into John's, vaguely brushing the tip of his nose against the doctors cheek. “Clearly they mean that Moriarty's aware of the plan. And that he knows you've been injured.” Sherlock thought for a moment, taking a bit longer than he would have if he hadn't been pressed so firmly against John's body. He didn't want to let go, and yet one of Mycroft's men was opening the door to 221B and suddenly Sherlock slid away from John, knowing that if Moriarty were watching the building somehow, that they didn't need to give away any hints to the psychopath. “I couldn't see the way he texted...” Sherlock seemed confused for a moment. “Or, you were joking," he realized.

Stranger: "Clot," John called him the name and then shook his head, and chuckled as he tried to hurry out the door since Mycrot had clearly given the order to move. It felt good, it felt like it had before the fall. The gentle jibes at each other, the jokes at others expense even amidst danger. Even strapped to a bomb at the pool, John had made an innuendo laced joke at Sherlock. It was this easy camaraderie in the face of death that had first drawn him to Sherlock the night they'd chased the cab. The same the night that he thought he was being turned down at Angelo's. They'd both been such great bloody fools. They'd have had years together by now if they hadn't...

As they climbed inside Mycroft's car, John's voice of self mockery which always sounded suspiciously like his sister said, /Really, John? You two together?/ and she... or he, John himself... was right, John knew he was. As lovely as it was to allow Sherlock to wrap his arms around him and come close, how long lived could it be? What with his wife and unborn child tucked in a safe room somewhere facing the same danger. It made him grow serious and feel terribly guilty.

You: Sherlock may have been rattled by the events of the day, confused, afraid... happy? – at least with the past few minutes. His heart hiccuped with a thump inside his chest at the remembrance. The sensation was still on his lips. It was still on his torso, in his palms, on the point of his nose. But outside the flat, in the night that was still drowned in rain, reality began to sink in and looking at John the detective knew that it wouldn't last.

The doctor was scrunched into the corner of his seat in Mycroft's car. His arms clung around his body as if to protect himself, eyebrows pulled inward and lifted... Sherlock read the signs, but said nothing. He wanted to blurt out something like, /Mary had meant it when she said we could 'share./ And it was true, she had meant it, but it was said in a wave of passion and frustration, and Sherlock knew her feelings on the matter would change. Especially once their child came into the world. She'd want to raise her little girl properly – not teaching her it was okay for her father to have two lovers. To subject her to the ridicule that would befall her in school, when the other children inevitably found out. Those few precious minutes in the flat would have to be enough. Enough to last a life time. They were all he'd been lotted to receive, and he knew, without any uncertainty that that's the way it would be. Irene had been lovely. She'd been his first, and it had been beyond words of an experience. He felt for her, and always would. But still, those feelings didn't even fraction what he felt for John... All of the emotions, through all of the years, stuffed deep into the barrel of a cannon. All of them that finally burst out in the flat just minutes ago.

Sherlock gripped his own shoulders, pressing his body back into the seat, and closed his eyes.

Stranger: The pang of guilt John felt led him to send a text message to Mary, asking if she was all right. No reply came, but he assumed that was normal. She'd be tired having been woken up and pushed into a car. He wished he could have spared her all this, even when he knew she was just as seasoned in, or perhaps more than even he was, in dangerous situations. There was so much to say to Sherlock, but he wasn't about to discuss it in front of Mycroft and his men in the car, so after sending the text to Mary he wrote:

'Can we talk? -JW'

And sent it to Sherlock.

You: Sherlock felt the text, glancing at his pocket, then at John who had his own phone out, and slid a hand in to grab it. He read the message – he knew that phrase. It was a common euphemism for 'I'm breaking up with you,' or in their situation, John telling Sherlock what he'd already concluded. Still, it stung. And stung more that it was to happen so soon after their moment... Sherlock knew it didn't matter what he felt, though. In fact, where human morality was concerned he shouldn't have kissed John in the first place. Sure, the doctor had reciprocated, but it wouldn't have happened at all if not for the detective. Yet, he couldn't find it in himself to regret it. Mary would get John for the rest of his life. She could spare the detective one kiss.

'Yes. -SH'

Stranger: /Well, don't look so defeated!/ John thought as he tried to covertly watch Sherlock text back. Sherlock assuming again, always assuming. John wasn't even sure about what but he was sure that Sherlock had likely predicted several meanings that the text could have meant and thus, several courses of action that John might take. Worst of all, more often than not he was entirely accurate. Well, fine, John would let him work out which course of action they would take now. It was in his nature; his Major had decided when to press the relationship, Mary had nudged him into proposing, and Sherlock had, of course, seized him and kissed him without his explicit permission. But each time, John went with it. He was a very good soldier and had been a wonderful medical student, if there was one thing he knew how to do it was follow his marching orders.

'What's going to happen now? With us? -JW'

He thought about it and then quickly clarified.

'I don't mean in terms of Moriarty, either. -JW'

You: Sherlock glanced over at John upon reading his texts. That hadn't been when he expected. John was asking for him to decide? Human emotion was so greatly eluding... Sherlock read the messages again, then once more, and could only discern that's what they implied. He began tapping on his screen. Coming up with pleads at first, then feeling foolish and backspacing them. The final message he wrote out and sent said:

'I'm currently incapable of not being selfish. -SH'

Stranger: "Well, what the hell does that mean?!" John burst out loud. And after receiving some very odd looks from the other people in the car, he ducked his head down slightly and slumped into his seat a little. He avoided looking at Sherlock, though he thought he could sense a smile at his expense.

'Selfish here meaning... what, exactly? -JW'  
You: Sherlock wore that famous half-smirk on his lips, but once the occupants of the car had settled themselves he pondered how to phrase his response. /I don't care about your wife or child at this time?/ No... He thought on it for a bit, Mycroft having his driver take a series of convoluted back streets on their way to the safe house.

'It means I don't want to share. -SH'

He wasn't sure if it was a good response. Or even if it really explained things. As he tapped the green send button on his iphone Mycroft informed the whole car that they were five minutes out from their destination.

Stranger: John's eyes widened and he tried to covertly look at Sherlock to see if his expression betrayed anything aside from what might be meant from the text. Damn Mycroft, and damn arriving before he knew what was to happen between him and Sherlock. He hated the ambiguity with a passion, he wanted it said forthright or not said at all. He couldn't find anything to text as they arrived and the car came to a stop. "Sherlock..." he said in a low voice, climbing out after him with some difficulty, "I thought you'd agreed to...." he swallowed, it was so odd to talk about himself in that context... "Share."

You: Sherlock turned slowly to the limping solider, eye lids fluttering. His mouth held open for a few moments before leaning in quickly to respond. “That really was Mary's idea. I hadn't agreed to it,” he said calmly, somehow managing to keep his composure better in the current setting. Thankfully it was no longer raining, or at least not raining in the part of town they'd been taken to. “It wouldn't work anyway. She didn't mean it, at least she'll no longer mean it soon enough.” Sherlock combed back his hair with slender fingers. Dark curls a bit damp, and mildly tangled.

Stranger: /John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, you will certainly not gape at him while he does something as bloody stupid as brush his hair back like you were a school girl./ He sternly thought to himself, but evidently, if he was thinking it, it meant he was already doing it. Sherlock's elegance had always been one of the main points over which John would have rows with himself over. The graceful way he'd pluck at the violin, or long careful fingers adjusting the focus on a microscope, would often lead to John scolding himself for even taking notice of such a thing. He shook his head as if to shake off the thought. There were more serious matters at hand, and urgently pressing, too. Sherlock's sense that Mary would take back her offer, an offer John wasn't even sure he should take if he was in his right mind. He was clearly not in his right mind when it came to Mary or Sherlock, however, and it seemed almost tempting before the idea reminded him of their phrasing, 'Borrow him, keep him, share him.' He would at least pretend to mind, one last hurrah for the dignity of John Watson, every inch the bottom Irene had laughingly accused him of being, both in and out of bed. He said more sharply than he intended, "And me? Did either of you think to ask me before you started drawing up a schedule?"

You: “John,” Sherlock began. “I had never intended to take her offer...” he trailed off. “My text.” Sherlock fumbled for his phone. Mycroft was approaching the two now, still lingering at the side of the car. The detective held it up for the doctor to re-read.

'It means I don't want to share. -SH'

“Lets get going,” Mycroft said flatly, staring at the awkward duo. Though behind the even tone of the politician's voice, he was thankful that Sherlock was filled with distraction for the moment. And hopefully he'd be able to keep his brother distracted long enough for them all to get settled in the safe house. Just long enough to keep the peace and avoid the detective blurting out his involvement with Greg Lestrade...

Stranger: Even to John, Mycroft seemed off. Not that he was ever normal, but John assumed it was involving catching him and Sherlock. He groaned inwardly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." he said to Sherlock about what he'd snapped at him. /I more said that for me than for you, really.../ "But, does this mean you're expecting me to leave...?" He looked up questioningly, not necessarily wanting to use her name on the off chance that they'd all been gathered at the same place.

You: Sherlock caught his meaning, and leaned in as they descended the concrete stairs. “I'm not expecting anything...”

He watched John hobble and wanted to offer his aid again, but if Mary were here, and saw... My god, he was getting tired of her existence right now. He didn't want to have a little meeting to discuss what would be done about John. He severely hoped that Mrs. Watson wasn't here. He didn't need more of her emotional abuse. In fact, he didn't need to see any of his 'friend's right now, not in this state. If only John's leg weren't battered and bruised... They could be off on their own. Everyone hidden while they went after Moriarty together. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through their veins. Like old times, and unlike 'The Fall,' they'd defeat him this time, together.

Stranger: "Fine, you're not expecting. But you don't want me to be with her and I assume you do want for us to be...?" He found no better way of putting it, "..a thing?... together?" He sighed in frustration. They couldn't, they couldn't come so close after so long only to give up because the pieces didn't fit neatly together, it was unfathomable to think that they'd regress after that kiss.

He had to stop, his leg was refusing to go on. He waited for the pain to subside enough to allow him to walk again and meanwhile took in his surroundings. "Anyway, what are we doing here? Just living here forever until Moriarty goes away on his own?"

You: “Of course not,” Sherlock mumbled. Then quickly sputtered to clarify. “I mean, about Moriarty.” His heart was racing as the words left his lips. He swallowed and looked away from John, meeting eyes with Lestrade at the bottom of the steps... In a sudden change of notes, the detective smirked slyly.

“Oh, no.” The DI shook his peppered head, pointing a harsh finger at the younger detective. “Don't you start.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes from behind the Inspector, and shot Sherlock a ice cold glare. For a moment John pursed his lips in confusion. Eyes bouncing between the three of them – though he was unable to see Sherlock's face in all this.

Stranger: /Don't know. Don't care. May ask about it later./ John concluded, shrugging. The price of being surrounded by geniuses. Maybe he'd arrange for a couple beers to be brought to him and Lestrade later, he at least was a normal bloke to talk to. "Can we not get a room or something?" He said to Sherlock, before immediately catching the implications of what he'd said, "I mean to talk without having to pass notes or whatever. Ten minutes? Before whatever is about to happen does?"

You: Sherlock made a small gesture toward Mycroft with his head and raised his eyebrows, non-verbally asking if that would be possible. The politician sighed quietly then smiled. “Yes, this way.” And led the two men down a long corridor.

The innards of the underground safe house were entirely grey. Grey concrete floors and wall. Grey metal doors bound into grey archways lining the pathway. Well, the dim lights did cast a yellow hue, but the metal that held their bulbs from the ceiling was again, grey. It was all rather dingy, much like this entire situation...

Mycroft stopped at a door two thirds down the hallway and opened it. Sherlock and John stepped inside to find the interior just as underwhelming as the rest of the base. A twin sized bed that hung mounted to the wall, a toilet and a sink with a small mirror above it.

“Thank you, for bringing us, to... a... prison...” Sherlock seemed annoyed, and shot Mycroft a look.  
“Yes, and thank you for blowing up my house.” His brother left with that little remark before Sherlock had time to respond. Leaving the detective and doctor alone behind the closed door.

Stranger: John snorted at the tiff between them. There were few things that entertained the doctor more than seeing Sherlock bested by his big brother. It did feel sort of like in the movies where the door was slammed behind the new prisoner. After hearing the footsteps fade away down the hall, "All right. Now. Now and forever. There's not much time, and I certainly don't want to be locked in here with you if everyone we know is here and fully aware of how long we're locked in for. That is the absolute last thing we need. " He reverted back to his old, 'let's not make people think we're interested in one another' jest but quickly regretted it. He didn't want to frighten Sherlock off by suddenly showing a lack of interest. "Just a joke. Doesn't mean anything, I don't mind..." He clarified. "I mean I do mind people thinking that, I don't mind being in here with you..." he babbled on.

You: Sherlock was having his own hard time with the fact that he and John were alone in a room together... again. John said he'd wanted to talk, but instead he was blabbering things, in a fit of anxiety. “You said 'now'. Now, what?” Sherlock interrupted, dark curls shaking with his head.

Stranger: "Tell me. What you want,” John explained. “What we're going to do. Lead and I'll follow like we've always done, because I try to think of what we just did, and then I can't. I think of Mary and the baby and the responsibility to them and how much she means to me, but then I can't help thinking of how long, how bloody long, I've been waiting for this to happen. So Sherlock, be brilliant, be genius. What. do. I .do. Now?"

You: The detective almost snorted a breath in response. “Me? Lecture you about... Human emotions?” Sherlock's arms flew up in exasperation. “I've no clue what to do about... all this!” He gripped John's shoulders. “No, this is up to you. You're the catalyst.” He shook the doctor a bit. “You have Mary. Have a child on the way.” He turned and faced the bed, then sat. Trying to calm himself a touch.

Stranger: John turned his back on Sherlock, pacing as he spoke. "Then don't judge." The doctor burst with frustration. "I'm Captain Bloody Watson, and I always do my duty and never flinch, and never falter and so on. Don't think any less of me, just don't judge. I didn't say I wanted you to lecture me, I just want to be sure that someone somewhere thinks that what I'm doing is what I ought to be doing, or right, somehow." He knew what he was saying was stupid. That he wanted someone to excuse him from his responsibilities so he wouldn't have to feel any guilt.

You: Sherlock sighed at all that, then stood from the springy bed. He walked over to John, making sure he had eye contact before he spoke, and hesitated briefly as what he wanted to say came to him. “I know...” Sherlock started, words formulating in his mind as he spoke. “That I'm not one to fairy judge, human relationship's.” The detective towered over the doctor in an unintentionally dominant way. “Though I think most would agree that I can observe things, quite well.” He blinked a few times as he continued. “That being said, throughout the years. Watching people, observing, I've come to a sort of conclusion about...” He paused before saying it. “Love.” The two men stood there silently for a short while, the 'L' word adding extra tension to the room. “I'm not sure why I hadn't reminded myself of this conclusion, throughout today. And no, I don't mean that it's a 'dangerous disadvantage.' That's another conclusion, unrelated to this one.” Sherlock stepped away from the solider and began to pace. “Anyway... We're not capable of the kind of love that we hold ourselves to. And that's because, we're selfish. The whole of humanity.” John raised an eyebrow, not understanding what Sherlock was trying to get at, at all by this point. “You commit to a person, you love them. Want to be with them, and spend time with them. Eventually, whether you admit it to yourself or not, someone else will catch your eye.” Sherlock's pacing was increasing in speed. This was something he'd decided in his Uni days. Fellow students constantly breaking up, and being nasty to one another over what his intellectual mind could only conclude was pure selfishness. “It may not be love for the new person, it may just be attraction. But it will happen, and does happen to everyone. At least, anyone interested in other human beings, in that manner, but that's beside the point – ” Sherlock took a breath, then continued, “Anyone who says otherwise is a liar.” John still looked confused, and shook his head to show it. “The point,” Sherlock said, “is that you want to be with other people. That your partner wants to be with other people. And that neither of you wants the other, to be with other people... So what does that say about us, 'humans,' then?” Sherlock paused for a second. “Hypocrisy. Selfishness. Not wanting to share, to control what your partner does. It's selfish all the same as wanting someone else, when you've already got someone. There's no escaping it. We are, by nature, programmed to contradict ourselves. Our hearts can love multiples of everything else. Family, friends, pets, objects. So why is it that we become selfish romantically?... Why do we allow ourselves to be hypocrites, wanting the very things that we don't want done to ourselves?” Sherlock ended there, and waited. Stared at John, heart thudding furiously. People didn't like to hear such things. They didn't like faults pointed out, even if they were pointed out indirectly. It was an accurate observation, though. Not that it explicitly excused anyone of anything, just that... Perhaps it would ease John into feeling like he wasn't being abnormal, or 'wrong.' That in this situation he was simply being the faulted human that everyone was, because romantic love was inherently selfish no matter how one looked at it. And so the detective stood there silently, and waited. Internally pleading that the shorter man would understand at least some of what he'd meant.

Stranger: John was not entirely sure what to make of all that so he merely stared as Sherlock rambled as he did at crime scenes. What he could really work out from any of that was, by virtue of being in love with someone, people were rendered hypocritical and selfish, according to Sherlock. John didn't entirely agree, he'd made a habit of trying to love people selflessly, but... then again, it didn't matter. He had clearly fell victim to what Sherlock had just rattled off, (the current situation between them proving that,) and yet he still couldn't let himself fully understand it. Not with the guilt so fresh, and the situation at it's pinnacle in every aspect in terms of distress. And in not understanding all of what Sherlock said, not what anyone else might think, it just seemed to John as though the detective had more or less implied that he wouldn't be disgusted with John's selfishness for loving him whilst being married to Mary because, perhaps, Sherlock recognized the inherent selfishness in feeling that way about him, knowing fully well that he'd made promises to someone else. It wasn't an elegant conclusion to a chain of reasoning like Sherlock's were, and he probably missed something out of it all, but it was John's way of ending his train of deductions.

"Fuck it." He threw his hands up and stomped in Sherlock's direction like he had at the restaurant where he'd tackled him, looking to all the world as though he were about to strike Sherlock, but instead he pulled the detective's lapels down to size and kissed him entirely too roughly, but beyond the point of caring.

You: Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if John had understood the depth of what he'd said. Maybe he'd need to 'dumb it down,' later, but then then he came out of his partial mind palace'd state to find the doctor passionately forcing his lips onto his, and figured he'd at least understood him to some extent. Of course, Sherlock returned the gesture eagerly. Though this time, John – with all his experience at the act – parted his lips, forcing Sherlock's open as well, and the detective froze not knowing how to respond. “John,” he muttered through their joined skin.

Stranger: "No." John shook his head, keeping his forehead pressed to Sherlock's and his hands bunched in the taller mans coat. "No. We've talked. For years. And talked. and never really said anything at all. You don't know whether this place is really safe, you don't know what's going to happen, do you?" He planted another kiss and pushed him back, forcing Sherlock to step backwards. It was a horrifically odd angle for both of them, and what he wanted most was to sit Sherlock down rather than having to bend him forward like this... and he didn't dare lose the contact between them to walk over to the bed like normal folk might have.

You: Sherlock simply shut up. He had no idea how to kiss back in the way that John was trying to get him to, so he kind of sat there stupidly for a moment. He wanted to blurt out that it was that, and only that, that had caused him to speak at all, but John had seemed so serious, and insistent that he be silenced, and Sherlock didn't want to ruin it, so he kind of tried to mimic the motions of John's lips.

Stranger: John eventually drew back, looking sort of wide eyed and incredulous at Sherlock. "Oh for God's sake." He covered his mouth, "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, had you ever done that before? Before today I mean?"

You: The detective stared back at him. His cheeks were hot, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. “Not... Like that.” He was referring to the 'tongue.'

Stranger: John found that he was almost panting, "Well, do you want me to keep going?”

You: Sherlock's mouth parted, but as he was about to speak there came three, loud, almost playful wraps on the other side of the metal door. He shifted on the bed, eyes narrowed. Not Mycroft. Not Mary. Who –  
“Well, now.” The door began to slide inward at the men who'd both been too startled to get out of their compromising positions. It was a woman's voice. /No/ Sherlock quickly corrected himself. It was...

“Yes, that's right. You did say 'everyone,' after all,” she chided, stepping into the room. It was enough to make the detective's heart thud. Her standing there, looking nearly the same as the detective last saw her... Rolling on her long dark socks at the foot of that run-down motel's bed. Sherlock handcuffed to the bed posts... Her amused smirk of bright red lipstick as she left, knowing that he'd manage to find a way out of them, though that it would surely take him a while. “Everyone the great Sherlock Holmes cares about, or at least that's how his older brother took the meaning.”

The Woman.

Stranger: John's first reaction was to bring a hand to his mouth to cover his lips, as if she'd somehow see evidence of what they were up to. As if she needed any more evidence. "That doesn't make sense!" John protested, "Sherlock, last I heard she's as likely to be on his side as she is on ours!"

You: “Well, no. Obviously. Mycroft wouldn't have allowed her in.” Sherlock stood and brushed past John as he approached Miss Adler. He snapped back into the same mind set from the last time – well, not the last time, not that mind set – but the one he'd had with her nearly every time he was with her, since their first encounter.

“Why exactly did my brother inform you as to which room we were in?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side just a tad.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Something about the two of you being gay.” She shot an entirely too amused look past Sherlock, at John. “And it causing you,” the 'you' was for Sherlock, 'to get his house destroyed.” She smiled that lovely, playful smirk at him.

Stranger: "Unbelievable." John looked incredulously at the doorway, "Sherlock, these are not very large rooms," he said emphasizing each word. "How many more insufferable geniuses should we be expecting?" He felt lost enough between Mycroft and Sherlock, and honestly he added Mary to that category himself. And to make things worse, for one brief, glimmering moment he had really felt himself capable to touch more of Sherlock if Sherlock had allowed him to. A moment that was now well and truly gone.

You: “Oh, fuck his house.” Sherlock spat out, having been completely absorbed in his own thoughts so much that he hadn't heard John at all. “Can we not move past that already?” The detective was growing incredibly tired of hearing about it. “It's not like he can't have it re-built in a week... Who else is here? I'm telling everyone about him and Lestrade.” Sherlock made way for the door.

“Wait, what?” Irene grabbed a hold of his bicep.

“Yes,” Sherlock sneered. “I'm not the only 'gay' in the family.” He made air quotes when speaking the word.

Stranger: John sputtered before bursting into a fit of hysterical laughter. "Wait...? Greg... Greg and Mycroft." He wound up laughing so hard that he had to sit on the bed before his leg threatened to give out entirely. Occasionally, he would stop and say "Greg, and..." It wasn't so much that he found the idea amusing, although he really did. It wasn't so much that he knew for a fact that Greg often found himself in the same predicament that he did, caught between geniuses. It was really a release of tension after the whole day that had lead to the uncontrollable fit of giggles that showed little sign of subsiding.

You: “Yes, John.” Sherlock wholeheartedly agreed with the doctors reaction. “Yes, I hope that's how everyone reacts.” The detective rushed out of the room, muttering things about Mycroft's damned house, leaving John with Irene who looked a tad bewildered.

“Well, it's nice to see the two of you haven't changed," she sighed at the solider now trying to calm down.

Stranger: As Sherlock sped off clearly intent on the pettiest of vendettas against his brother, John finally managed to relax, his outburst quickly replaced with the urgency he felt to talk to Irene. He became almost instantly serious. "Ire... Er... Ms. Adler? I was really hoping you might explain a few things..."

You: “I can try,” she sighed once more. “But I'm not really down here for that.” She glanced out the door. “Iceman's idea.” She referred to what she'd told Sherlock, to work him up. “He's concerned. Willing to put poor, dear Greg though all that embarrassment just so I could have a moment alone with you.” She sat down next to John on the bed and crossed her legs. Unlike the first time they'd met she was bundled up in a coat, as if she'd simply been having a normal night, minding her business, when Mycroft's men had picked her up. “You can't distract him any longer.” She didn't bother to explain in what way. Even she knew John wasn't that dense, and she'd caught them at it, so there was no way for him to deny it now. “Things are getting... bad.” She stared at the ceiling, inferring she meant the world outside of the safe house.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock pranced around the hallway, rattling on doors with the backs of his fists. “Oh, Myyyycrofffttt!” He felt like he was currently two different people... There was his outer self, behaving closer to normal than he had the entire day, and his inner self, afraid at what might have happened if Irene hadn't interrupted him and John. Despite his deductions of 'love,' his views were highly controversial, and he hadn't intended for his assessment to cause John to 'attack' him, that way...

When he finally found his brother, it was in a room with Greg, and Greg looked pissed because he clearly knew what was coming. Sherlock poked his head back out the door to see Anderson and Donovan standing in the hallway with confused looks.

“Really?” Sherlock snapped his head toward his brother. “Just them? Where are the rest?”

Stranger: Distantly John could hear Sherlock's voice. He initially wanted to protest Irene's remark that he was distracting Sherlock, but not even he himself believed that. "Understood." He nodded and resigned himself to the fact that the moment was gone and innocent lives would depend on Sherlock completely pitted against Moriarty with the full force of his focus. He seized her wrist gently to impress the seriousness of his request, "How do you know my wife?"

You: Irene blinked at the hand on her wrist and side-smiled. “Briefly,” she told him, and while her tone hadn't been any form of severe, it had come across as non-negotiable. She stood up, sliding from John's grasp. “She understands.”

Stranger: "You..." /She said briefly, make it count. Make it count./ "You're the expert in all this, right? What do we do? What should I do? Mary's pregnant and Sherlock and I, we..." He turned red at the tips of his ears to discuss it in front of her, after she'd brought him to the power station to practically force him into admitting how he felt. Christ, she'd picked it up since she saw the punch he'd landed on Sherlock's cheekbone. "I don't really know what's supposed to happen from here on out."

You: “Oh, intriguing...” Irene seemed amazed at what John had chosen to ask. “I said brief and you're all, Sherlock.” She shook her pretty little head and smiled. “I think that might be an answer in itself.”  
Stranger: John stared down, and held his head in his hands. Irene's comment had proven to further complicate things for him. But, she had seen through him and was right, he'd prioritized Sherlock over anything else. He rested on the bed against the wall and awaited the detective's return, while still trying to puzzle out what should happen.

Irene, on the other hand, received a text:

'How did that go? -MW'

You: Lestrade rushed past Sherlock to slam the door, then held himself in front of it. “No.” The gray haired man swayed his head. “Just, no.”

Mycroft shot a look at his boyfriend. “Are you really that ashamed of me?”

“That ain't it!” Greg fumed, gesturing to Sherlock angrily. “We were keeping it from 'em! I'd prefer to tell the rest myself!”

“Then go tell them,” Mycroft lifted his eyebrows.

“Not like this!”

Sherlock suddenly had found himself in an awkward situation. His brother and Lestrade continued to argue while he stood between them in the tiny space. After half a minute he'd had enough, and abruptly blurted out, “Lestrade is datin-” But Mycroft's hand was pressed tightly against the detective's lips before he could get it out, and the politician shoved him hard against the concrete wall. The display of emotion from Mycroft was startling, so it took Sherlock a tick to regain his barrings. But when he did, he pushed his brother off and glared.

“My apologies,” the politician said smoothing his jacket, then changed notes. “But, enough of of this foolishness.” He glanced at his brother and Lestrade. “And Sherlock, I mean that more towards you.”

Stranger: John was about to limp out to intervene when he heard the commotion. "Sherlock!" He yelled hoping the man might desist and answer the call, sparing him the painful trip down the hallway. He had an inkling that it would have been time for more pain medication by now, but he was specifically resisting taking his medicine in case it became handy later. "Sherlock!" he yelled again.

Suddenly, another series of texts arrived. Not simultaneously this time but staggered in quick succession.

Mycroft's message read: 'How thoughtful of you to bunch them all together that way. Makes things so much easier. JM'  
Irene's read: 'Naughty girl. JM'  
Sherlock's message taunted: 'And the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day. And it was all the more fun to burn. JM'  
John's message said only: 'Good dog. Now, do the trick where you roll over. JM'

The innuendo made him turn red with embarrassment and fury all at once.

You: Mycroft sighed at his phone, while Sherlock simply stared at his. “What?” Greg asked, feeling left out, and moved next to his boyfriend to read the screen.

“Well, at least he's only partially correct.” Mycroft clicked the button to darken his iphone. “And before he fully figures it out we'll need to make something perfectly clear, dear brother.”

Sherlock waited, mind fuzzed by the day and unable to anticipate what Mycroft was trying to imply.

“Your little affair needs to be put on pause.” The politician's reference to John and Sherlock's day of revelation's struck a nerve with the detective.

“I'm fine.” Sherlock disagreed, shaking his head of curls. “It doesn't matter, I can still think. I'm fine.”

By this time Greg was fully aware of the situation, and despite the seriousness of what was occurring with Moriarty still found amusement in it all coming out on the same day. Sherlock and John. Himself and Mycroft. He was grinning about it stupidly from behind the politician when the door cracked open, and Donovan and Anderson's eyes peeked through the sliver. He may not be his boyfriend or the great detective, but he didn't need to be to note that their expressions reeked of surprise.

“Boss?” Donovan muttered.

“Oh, shut up,” Greg spat.

Stranger: Having no one to compare notes with, John didn't realize he was the only one to receive that text. With horror, he thought everyone had received the message laced with the same sort of implications he'd been receiving on his blog. He limped out determinedly to try and find Sherlock, not that it was difficult, he assumed he would be where Anderson and Donovan where tittering by the doorway. He tried not to look at them too much and nodded curtly, trying to hide his embarrassment as he stepped through the door. "Sherlock? Sherlock, we need to ta– Oh..." He suddenly felt extremely intrusive at waltzing into what was apparently a room that Mycroft and Greg had chosen to retire into. If his own conversation with Sherlock was any metric, he had some idea as to what had or would go on, and though he was more than used to dealing with sex in his clinical work, he felt deeply, deeply uncomfortable with having walked in on them. "Sherlock... talk? Outside of this room, please."

You: Sherlock gave Mycroft another disagreeing look before stepping outside with John, and the two began walking back toward the room they'd been in. As they reached it, and entered to see Irene still standing there, Sherlock scowled. The detective quickly stepped behind her and grabbed her by the shoulders, then - “This is our room, get out,” - pushed her through the archway and promptly shut the door behind her.  
The Woman stood there for a moment, grinning with a sort of delight, but her expression quickly changed and she finally reached for her phone to reply to Mary.

'They're back in the room again, and he kicked me out. -IA'

Stranger: 'John kicked you out? Really? -MW'

Mary arched both eyebrows, misunderstanding who the significant 'he' in that text message was and assuming it was just John acting out of character in an effort to be alone with Sherlock.

"Did everyone get that text, Sherlock?" the doctor whispered urgently. He was embarrassed enough at having his personal affairs openly discussed and laid bare in front of more people than he'd thought possible today, without Moriarty sending mass defamatory texts.

You: “Huh, what?” Sherlock turned to the doctor, lifting an eyebrow. The detective was still on about Mycroft thinking he couldn't handle himself, and despite denying it to his older brother he knew the politician was right.  
Irene smiled gently at her mobile, heading down the hallway towards the commotion now coming from Greg and his detectives.

'No silly, Sherlock. -IA'

She could tell that Mary was worried, despite her best intentions to be objective.

Stranger: 'Ah. Of course. That you'd say 'he' and expect me to conclude you meant Sherlock and not my husband, dear. We don't all think of Sherlock as the only Man. Cheers :-). MW'

"The text! You got a text about me... and you... I think everyone did!" John hissed impatiently and pulled out his phone to shove it in front of Sherlock. "I heard everyone's phone go off and I think they might have all gotten this! It's the same sort of thing he'd write on the blog except I can't go through and delete it now, can I?"  
You: “John calm down. I was sent something else, as was Mycroft.” Sherlock told him, but his thoughts were still preoccupied with his brother's order. He wasn't being very reassuring, in fact he wasn't even looking at John at all anymore.

“Um, Mrs. Watson?” Molly Hooper stood before the pregnant woman, sat against the wall inside a nearly darkened warehouse. She had a mug of coffee – there was a machine set up in the middle of the room on fold out plastic tables – and naturally the ever helpful pathologist thought Mary looked in need of a pick me up. “No tea, not sure why...” She began rethinking her actions as John's wife stared up at her.  
Stranger: "Oh, Molly. 'Mary,' please. No need for all that Mrs. Watson rubbish. I'm fine. I'm just so tired these days, I'm not used to being so easily exhausted.” She sighed. “Sit down, please." She motioned the seat next to her for Molly, so in need of kindness.

"What is it? What's wrong?" John dropped the subject at hand when Sherlock allayed his worries, but noticed that the man was very distracted, not at all the laser focus that John had been on the receiving end of these past hours.

You: Sherlock groaned loudly. He'd finally worked it out. “How stupid.” His eyes flit to John's. “Miss Adler told you to desist, didn't she?” One of Sherlock's hands made a spasm in the air. He paused. “I need to think.”  
Stranger: "No... no... Sherlock. Go off into one of your spells in a bit, but first we need to be ready, we need to be prepared. What is going on?" He said shaking the detective by the shoulders enough to make him react. /Don't distract him,/ he remembered Irene saying then, so he decided he'd stop and do as good soldiers did and go to bed while there was still time and opportunity to sleep. He abandoned Sherlock to his thoughts and curled up on the mattress.

You: After five or so minutes Sherlock snapped out of it, and stared over at John, now nestled in facing the wall. He contemplatively steepled his fingers, then shook his arms out against his coat a moment later. Without missing a beat the detective scooted next to the doctor, backs together, and curled his body into the fetal position. He was drained, but he'd be lying to say there were no ulterior motives in him laying there. Though, it wasn't time for that now. It was time to think. Actually think. And under the circumstances he'd rather think next to John than pace about the tiny room.  
Stranger: John didn't know for how long he slept, but he did know he was at first shocked enough to almost blurt something out at rolling over and seeing the detective practically spooning him. But he caught himself before saying anything and allowed himself to enjoy the warmth and peace of the moment before the oncoming storm.

You: It'd been an hour or so now of Molly chatting with the doctor's wife. They didn't talk about anything in particular, but once when Molly began to mention wondering where Sherlock and everyone else were, Mary quickly steered the subject, and the mousy woman had taken the hint. She'd picked up a bit of what might be causing Mary's discontent at St. Bart's earlier in the day, but it was almost too hard for her to fathom. Sherlock loving John? Maybe it was just that she herself still had feelings for the detective, but it'd been many years of nothing between the two men...

After a while longer Miss Hooper found herself nodding off, and as she jerked back to awareness thought, /what time is it?/ and quickly checked her phone. 12:00AM on the nose. “I'm so sorry Mary,” Molly began to say, then halted. Mrs. Watson was no longer next to her. Molly fumbled to sit up and almost fell from the blackness that clouded her eyes. When she had her balance back she glanced about the room. Over near the tables were Ms. Hudson and Janine... they'd known one another from... Molly still was upset at Sherlock for that, and wondered why his 'ex' was here in the first place. But pondering that any further would have to wait. Mary wasn't anywhere in sight, and the room was nearly empty except for the three remaining Sherlock 'care abouts' and a handful of Mycroft's men guarding the doors.

At the underground safe house, Mycroft sat on the edge of his bed with fingers laced into a fist. He was watching Anderson with his Scottish friend from 'The Empty Hearse' club, wage verbal war in the hallway. Mycroft had been irritated at having to pick her up. The scruffy detective – if he could even be called that – had insisted however, and Lestrade coaxed the politician into obliging. The goth woman wrote a Sherlock and Moriarty... a 'Sheriarty'... Blog which apparently the psychopath commented on once, and Anderson was having fits about her safety. Mycroft mused as to why, as the two were currently spitting insults at one another over their Moriarty theories. Clearly, the lunatic arraigned a system to play the sound effect of gun fire. Clearly, he had a pouch of fake blood under his Westwood suit collar. Sherlock had been so riled that he didn't bother to check for an exit wound, and instead continued on with their plan. Even back then his foolish little brother was so absorbed by John Watson that he could think little of anything else.

Greg came back from the bathroom and slid against Mycroft so that their shoulder's pressed together. “So,” he began.

“We can't,” Mycroft replied in kind.

“I didn't –” Greg stopped and scowled. Mycroft and his rude deductions.

Suddenly vibrations sputtered between their connecting thighs and Greg shrugged away in a hurry. “Sorry.” He wasn't sure why he needed to apologize for his phone going off, but he shook off the thought as he answered it.

“Hello?” The detective Inspector said, having forgotten to check who was calling.

“Um. Greg.” It was Molly.

“Right, oh, sorry," he apologized. “Yeah?”

“I can't find Mary, she just disappeared, and –“

“No,” Mycroft interjected, able to over hear the conversation due to his closeness. “She's outside. Getting some air.” The politician read a message on his own phone then. “Ah, the degenerate has arrived.”  
Sherlock still laid with John. The doctor had rolled to look at him once, but had since gone back to sleep. The two men rested peacefully on the thin futon, Sherlock palms together flat, up under his chin. John in somewhat of a sprawl, or as least as much as he could be in the limited space. Sherlock had worked out many possibilities in the past hour, a total of eight good theories as to what moves Moriarty would make. He couldn't narrow it down though, despite his best efforts, and while he had at some point realized John's closeness wasn't aiding him, he couldn't tear himself away either.

Sherlock shifted, arching his back and left arm over, to crane his neck to look at the sleeping soldier. His chest ached with longing, and the proximity to John laying there so vulnerably was absolutely intoxicating. /Possibly,/ the detective concluded, staring at the small space where John's shirt had come up from fidgeting in his sleep. Maybe getting the doctor 'out of his system' would be the best course of action. Sherlock knew that was a bold faced lie, at least in that clearing his mind was not his motivation at all. Still, it was true that it could be a byproduct of... Sherlock felt a lump in his throat at the thought. No, he couldn't possibly do that. Not that. Not here, or like this. And yet... He slowly shifted to face John's back and slid an arm up and over to his chest... Loosely clenching the doctors shirt he pressed his lips to the mans back and breathed in his scent.

Stranger: "I'm awake, you git." John said but made no move to force Sherlock's arm from his body. He'd been awake far longer than he'd let on, but he had continued to pretend to be asleep so as to allow Sherlock to sleep. Or so he told himself. In truth, he was enjoying the other man's warmth entirely too much. Perhaps it was his way of enjoying the closeness without 'distracting' him as Irene had warned him not to. But Sherlock clearly being awake now, he rolled over onto his side to face the detective. "So... here we are again, then..."

You: Sherlock froze, and stared at John, and was still a bit startled at the doctor having been awake. Any hint of boldness the detective had vanished the moment their eyes locked, and the realization of them being so close in this way was turning his stomach in knots. He let his lips fall apart in a small gape and continued to lay there stiffly.

Stranger: "Have you been able to... think, or go into your mind palace or whatever it is you needed to do?" John said quickly averting his eyes at seeing Sherlock's uncomfortable reaction, "Irene said... to not distract you. With personal concerns right now... But you figured that out already." But even after saying so, he readjusted himself so that he was slightly closer to the detective. The gruff sort of manner he'd cultivated around Sherlock began to fall away after the understanding they'd begun to reach... "Hey..." he said, noticing how stiffly he lay, "What's wrong? Don't just stare like that..."

You: Sherlock's mind was a mess. He had never, not once in his entire life, felt so impossibly mixed up inside. One minute he was longing for John, the next he felt wrong about it and wanted to pull away. And while that seemed so simple, it wasn't, because the intensities he felt those things in, and the way he felt them, and all the variables were swirling around and making a disaster of his head. Even in the present moment, he felt impulses to snatch the doctors face up and lock lips with him, and then other impulses that told him to get up and out of the room. The back and fourth was keeping him in a state of limbo, and the twinges of emotion caused shivers to dash throughout his body... John had asked him what was wrong. “I don't know,” the detective's tone was so plainly, and genuinely honest.

Stranger: John felt taken aback, his eyes widened and he hated the idea that it might be true, but he wasn't the type to force someone into something, "Do you regret it? Earlier? I shouldn't have..." he cleared his throat, "kissed you like that earlier, before Irene walked in on us, I was wrong..." The normally cool and collected detective seemed at a loss for what to do. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea if Sherlock potentially regretted having kissed him, or had only kissed him in the heat of the moment, but he stretched out a hand and rubbed the mans arm reassuringly. "Just tell me what to do, if I can do anything to make it better, just say what you need..."  
You: Sherlock sighed, and it was a groaning kind of sigh. He wanted to be where he currently was. He had wanted that kiss. Wanted more, so much more... He was just afraid... He was terrified of entangling his heart even further, only to be let down in the end, because John would surely choose Mary over him in the end. There was not a chance that John Watson would abandon his family. Even if the doctor ceased loving her, even if his heart learned to beat for the detective, and the detective, alone... Sherlock's curls bobbed furiously in a fit of shakes. He was bursting from the inside out with rage and heartbreak, and he felt like he couldn't take it anymore. He was stuck right here, right in this flux of 'life,' immobilized by every feeling that tore it's way inside him...

Stranger: "I am, aren't I?" John said feeling immensely guilty about being with Sherlock instead of Mary, about keeping his thoughts turned towards them, and not to stopping the madman. About being unsure of what would happen in the future. "Distracting you..." He sat up in bed and pulled his good knee in towards himself, "You don't have to stay here if you'd rather not. Or I could find Mary and bunk down with her. You shouldn't have to worry about any of this right now." He shook his head at himself, stupid of him to bring it up right when Sherlock needed to be at his best. He turned to look at him to gauge his reaction but like a bloody teenager could do nothing but stare. He'd wanted that kiss and much more than that kiss if he was honest, but Sherlock hadn't done anything like that before and John felt sure he had jumped the gun. He was attempting to be noble and understanding of what he thought was Sherlock's reluctance. "I'm sorry. I should have asked before doing anything, I'm sorry about the whole thing, about everything..."

You: Sherlock reached out, lightly gripping at John's sleeve. He held the cloth between two fingers and his thumb, and his head hung down a bit. He was exhausted. Not so much from lack of sleep – he was used to not sleeping. His drained feeling came from the whirlwind day, and the past hour, and the memories of all those missed opportunities. He could no longer set a description of exactly what he wanted, no longer deduce or suss out or put a name on his desire. The only thing the detective could grasp in the waves of crashing emotion was that he wanted John. He wanted the doctor, and wanted nothing more.  


Sherlock felt 'butterflies' fix in on his abdomen, flitting their wings so fast that yet another knot tied in their wake. His fist drew tighter around John's clothing, and he found himself pulling the solider over, nearly onto his body. There was a moment in that positioning of utter silence, the two men holding their breaths. But, it was Sherlock who spoke first, and when he did he couldn't believe the words that came out of his mouth. Because, when the detective finally broke his reserve, what escaped from his lips was, “I love you.”


	3. "Then Early That Morning"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ((Written as an RP with 'bakerstirregular0,' prompted by myself on Omegle.))
> 
> **If there are any errors I apologize. I went through and edited, but may have missed stuff here and there.***

Stranger: John thought he knew what this was. The familiar impending danger, the lurking sensation of everything potentially about to go wrong that induced a devil-may-care attitude of living for the moment in the men he had served with before they sensed the next day might bring them to their death. He’d felt himself pushed to becoming physical with the only other man he’d ever been with on a night such as this one, when the feeling had been correct in the Major’s case, and he’d suffered from the wounds that had separated them.

Irene was no soldier, he rationalized to himself, of course she’d think of sex as a distraction since it was her weapon to distract people from looking too closely at what she was really up to. 'Sex? Really?' John thought, as he caught himself thinking about it. That was moving entirely too quickly, particularly since apparently Sherlock hadn't even properly kissed anyone, by John’s standards of proper kissing anyway. But it felt incomprehensibly stupid to possibly die so near to being that close to this man, after all those years of scolding himself for wanting the impossible. And since he’d decided earlier that even if he’d spend the rest of his life with it on his conscience for being here with Sherlock, and if he immediately left afterward to stand guard at the foot of Mary’s door, he would allow himself this one departure from duty. It wasn't a decision lightly made, John never abandoned his duty, but the decision was borne out of a strange and complicated sense that this too was unquestionably his duty, to stand at Sherlock’s side like he wished he’d been able to, after those years that Sherlock had been gone. So, he’d make the offer and put it to Sherlock to either take him up on it, or refuse and live with whatever his decision would be. He untangled his painful limbs and crawled over the detective to move to the door slowly, and very deliberately locked it from the inside, knowing and not caring that more than one person likely had a key.

He scooted to the back of the bed, without his cane, and sat on the outside this time directly behind Sherlock, turning himself to look at the other man still lying where he’d left him. He stretched out a hand to caress the detectives back and then moved the arm to gently turn Sherlock towards him. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “If you don’t want to or can’t, I understand. I understand completely, Sherlock…” He said after drawing back from the kiss, “But if you do want to… er… pick up from where we left off before… we can...”

You: Sherlock's eyes fluttered and he sat up abruptly. The room spun a bit – partially from the rapid movement, and partially from what he thought John had implied... He wanted to, if that was what John had meant. Hell, he just wanted to lock lips more if that's all John had meant, too. But, the detective had said something to the doctor... Something important. Something Sherlock had never said to anyone in this context before. Had John missed it through the tension of the moment?

Sherlock stared at the doctor's flushed face with a slight bit of annoyance. “John, I said that I love you...” His lips pulled back tightly at the words, his anxiety returning.

Stranger: "I know," the doctor breathed. “And I know you didn't say it in so many words before, but... back at the flat, when you first kissed me... it felt like you'd said it then." He stared down, cursing himself internally for having not responded in the way Sherlock was expecting him to. At the verbal declaration he'd just heard. "All this time, I told myself you'd never, and now I've gone and made it seem like I skipped over it. I love you, it's why I'm telling you we can go on. And now I know you love me back... And it's brilliant." He laughed a little, more out of nervousness than out of mirth.

You: Sherlock said nothing in response, but slowly peeled back his coat and untied his blue scarf to set them both in a pile next to the bed. Under remained his purple shirt – the one that The Woman noted was 'sexy' on him, on a few occasions. The detective paused in his actions feeling that knot in his abdomen again. Almost as if, even 'if' he did this, which god he wanted to so badly, that he should really hold himself back. That it'd only make things worse for them both. He knew so surely, beyond even the slightest shadow of doubt that John would trot off back to Mary sooner, rather than later... and the more they did beforehand would only grow the distance between them later on. John would feel guilty, even more than he did already. Mary would probably forbid him from seeing Sherlock once the baby was born, as to shelter their child and keep her father on a leash. Human instinct. Sherlock couldn't really blame her. He sighed and leaned towards John. He needed comforting, or reassurance, or something... and pressed a cheek against the doctors, nestling into his face and breathing in his scent.

Stranger: "I'm sorry." John cradled his head, sliding his fingers in the taller man's curls. "I should have said it back," he said softly. "And I should have said it sooner. If I'd been as brave as I think I am, I'd have said it sooner." Was this Sherlock taking him up on the offer? John was more than happy to comply if it was... he pressed what began as a tender kiss to Sherlock's lips. But as the kiss went on, the more desperate need moved to the forefront and John pressed into the detective's mouth more hungrily.

You: There was some commotion from the hallway. Mycroft's men were bringing an especially grungy Bill Wiggins down the stairs and into the safe house, dragging him along the way. When they reached Mycroft and Lestrade's room they set him down, and he stumbled a bit.

“Oi!” Bill spun at Mycroft. “Why'm I 'ere?”

“Mr. Wiggins.” Mycroft stood and crossed to the former drug addict. He was 'clean,' but was looking especially filthy. “You'll need a shower, but I must impress upon you to make it quick. We have much to discuss and not a lot of time,” the politician explained.

Sherlock heard the voice outside out the room, and pulled away from John abruptly. He listened carefully, eyes and eyebrows scrunched down tightly. When he realized who it was, desire took over full force... It was now, or likely never. He had an inkling of what Mycroft was up to, and there wasn't much time. “John.” The detective pressed his mouth against the doctors forcefully, then pulled back. “Yes. I can. I will. I –” He interrupted himself, and cupped John's face to kiss him yet again.

Stranger: "My God..." John sighed between kisses. He crawled fully onto the bed and pressed Sherlock against the small headboard of the sparse frame while removing his jumper, practically tearing it off of himself. He interrupted the kiss only long enough to yank off his sweater, leaving him in a thin button up. "W-wait... Sherlock... you... have you done this before?"

You: “This as in...?” the detective began through panted breaths. “Well, no.” Sherlock thought for a moment. “I mean, once with The Woman. But never with a man, no.” He angled his face and pushed back into John before he could speak, starting to catch on to the rhythm his lips were supposed to move in.

Stranger: "And... and you're sure...?" John pulled back to ask breathlessly, "Say the word, any time. Say the word and I'll stop... I'd never want you to..." he said kissing him whenever he paused in his speaking. "...do anything you didn't want to do." He readied his hand at the top button of his shirt if Sherlock gave him permission to continue. It was too deeply ingrained in him to be anything but a gentleman in these situations.

You: For a brief moment Sherlock was surprised at John's not asking for further information about him and Irene. But then the detective gave his head a small shake yes, and moved John's hand away to unbutton the doctor's shirt for him. With his other he began undoing his own buttons, while making swift work of them both.

Stranger: Leaning forward slightly to facilitate Sherlock's unbuttoning his shirt, he chuckled softly to himself, "S'no wonder she was so keen to keep me from 'distracting' you." He shucked off his top and began making work of Sherlock's own purple and clearly more expensive shirt, carefully but swiftly. When he got to the last button he pulled it back over the detective's shoulders, luxuriating over the milky smoothness of the other man's lean and pale chest. "My God..." he gasped appreciatively.

Meanwhile, John's phone and John's phone alone buzzed with a text alert as it lay ignored on the ground. He, of course, took no notice of it and couldn't have cared any less about it at the moment.

You: “Well, it was Mycroft who put her up to it technically,” Sherlock had to correct John. Of course he had to correct him, he was Sherlock. “But, yes, that too. Probably.” He bent forward, pressing lips into the groove between John's collar bones. He slid his mouth gently upward from there to plant a kiss on his chin, then traced around the doctor's jaw heading up and behind his ear. 'No.' The detective pulled back abruptly, bringing his face right in front of John's, to stare at the soldiers extremely dilated pupils. There wasn't time for 'foreplay.'

Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the doctor's mouth before nervously reaching for the his belt.

“Are we hurrying?” The back of Mycroft's fist tapped against the shower stall in the small bathroom, and the water shut off.

“I just finished up. Don't be pushy,” Wiggins replied in complaint as he reached for a towel.

Stranger: John took it as a signal. He reached for Sherlock's own belt and quickly had it unbuckled, slid around from his hips, and thrown to the floor. He knelt on the bed to allow Sherlock to pull his trousers down when he finished unbuckling the strap.

"I would have wanted it to be... slower..." he gasped as he kissed the detective's hair. "I could have done this all day, if we could..."

You: “Sorry...” Sherlock mumbled as he removed the strap from John's waist. He didn't give the doctor the reason for his hurrying however, unsure of how the other man might take it in that, who knew how many minutes exactly, (there were too many variables and Sherlock couldn't currently focus enough to figure it out...) Mycroft would be sending the detective's 'protege' down the hall to interrupt, and... Sherlock didn't waste more time on the thought. Instead he curled the tips of his fingers around the doctors waistband and pressed a thumb into the button to undo the mans pants. It popped loose and the detective reached his fingers for John's zipper, carefully gripping it so as not to brush against the doctor just yet.

Stranger: John allowed his pants to be unzipped and stripped down out of them until he was kneeling in the bunched up material. He then leaned Sherlock back gently and hooked a finger into the waistband of the detective's own trousers, as he unbuttoned them, too.

John looked up once more to make sure Sherlock showed no signs of stopping him before tugging the mans pants down, letting them pool around the detective's knees. He drew in closer to kneel before the taller man on the bed, kissing his lips once more beforehand. "Did she use her mouth on you?" 

You: Sherlock breathed in sharply at the thought. “Surprisingly,” he began to say as his voice cracked, "no," he finished the sentence. They had such limited time, but... but... Sherlock couldn't interject. He couldn't even think in the moment enough to come up with an excuse for nixing the foreplay. Instead he stayed there kneeling on the springy mattress, feeling suddenly self conscious at the bulge in his boxers... And yet, he waited patiently for John to continue. John Watson's lips around... His mouth, surely warm and wet around his... He felt the pressure surge through his organ and his body flushed with an overwhelming heat.

Stranger: John nodded eagerly then, and looking up at Sherlock as he did so, slid the mans briefs to his knees, revealing the detective's erection. "Let me," he said simply, the swelling in his own underwear growing even stiffer at the idea.

You: Sherlock's eyes bat furiously. His mouth dropped open, followed by a series of short staggered breaths that pulled deep into his lungs. He felt John kissing tenderly down his chest, then his abdomen, then into the depression between his hip and pelvis. “J –” Sherlock choked out as one of the doctor's hands slid up from his knee onto his thigh.

Stranger: John somehow knew they didn't have time for foreplay, that Sherlock was rushing for some reason or another, but he wanted to give at least part of the man this experience... And so the doctor took the tip of the detective's erection into his mouth, and worked his way up the length until he reached the base and faced the patch of fine hair that grew from the skin there. He drew back and teased the sensitive head, rolling the tip of his tongue around it, until the initial droplets of semen began to form.

Kicking his pants off so that he too was naked, he pulled back and again took all of Sherlock's length in, and repeated this until he reached a speed that clearly, and audibly, pleased the taller man, now grasping long fingers through his short sandy hair. John did not intend to bring Sherlock to orgasm, however, he merely wanted to heighten the other mans arousal, so when he thought he might be close, he drew back...

"Sh... Sherlock," he said wiping at his mouth, "You have to decide now..." he said panting and resting his head at other man's hipbone.

You: The detective's face was flushed red, and warmth swelled within the skin beneath his eyes. Sherlock was far too... unstable... to do much at the moment, so instead he gripped his palms around the other mans shoulder's for balance, and panted heavily. How much time did they even have left, now?... He wondered.

Stranger: John drew himself up and took Sherlock's hands in his own as he leaned backwards, pulling the detective gently along.

"Come on..." he said, his voice deeper than it normally was, and out of breath from the effort of taking the other man's length into his throat, and of putting his weight on his injured leg. As quickly as he could, he pushed on through the discomfort and stretched his bad limb out past Sherlock, allowing himself to lean back on one elbow and stretch and spread his legs around the detective's. "Come on, be on top. You... you've got a little more experience this way, and it won't hurt you. Go on."

You: Sherlock's heart momentarily halted. The doctor's words grew muted and distorted, though it wasn't because John had just spread out before him, or that Sherlock was afraid they just might have enough time to pull this off before being interrupted... The detective's eyes were glued onto John's... to John's... It was bigger than his own. Distinctly, at least by two full inches. And while Sherlock wasn't by any means small, he suddenly felt completely lacking in self esteem, and froze.

Stranger: The doctor's eyes widened. Oh fuck... he hadn't wanted to go this far, maybe? He hadn't wanted to be told what to do? John had meant it at the kindest of suggestions given their time constraints and their complete lack of preparation. "What's wrong?" he said scrambling to sit forward, and instead stretched out the arm he leaned on. He searched Sherlock's eyes intently for some indication of what he had done.

You: The detective pressed a hand to his mouth, to keep himself from blurting it out, but his eyes followed where they'd been looking beforehand, completely ignoring John's question and face.

Stranger: "What is it? For God's sake, Sherlock. What did I do?" He put a hand as far around the other man's back as he could reach and was trying to rub small circles to calm him down. The hand Sherlock had placed over his mouth made it seem as though he was either going to burst into tears, or burst out with something he didn't want to let himself say. John sighed, horrendously disappointed in whatever he had done to trigger this from Sherlock, "I can leave you alone if you'd rather..."

You: Sherlock was becoming irritated. He didn't want to say it, and yet he hated that John hadn't figured it out, and yet... he still couldn't vocalize it. So instead, the detective hooked an arm under John's and pulled him upright onto his knees – though with caution as to avoid harming the man's injured leg – and scooted towards the doctor. Scooted right up against him, crouching down a bit to account for their difference in height. Sherlock stared down, as he had been already. Stared at both their members pressed stiffly together and flushed at the sensation... Then he snapped out of it and shot a look up to John as if to say, 'don't you dare not understand.'

As John looked back at Sherlock, then lowered his eyes to the space between them, the sound of a key in the lock, followed by the sound of the door handle turning, interrupted them.

Stranger: The realization eventually dawned on John. The idea of Sherlock insecure about anything, really, but specifically his body was entirely alien and inconceivable. "But, you're gorgeous..." he began to protest, by way of saying, 'I'd love you if it was twice the size of mine, or if you had none at all...' but before he could open his mouth to say anything more the door handle turned. "I locked it!" mouthed John. He /had/ locked it, he'd made sure. But he wasn't sure how long that would stop the person outside. They weren't bunked down with very many people who would give up on their first try or be daunted by a mere locked door.

You: Sherlock's head snapped to the door and he darted for it, holding his back against the metal, still completely nude... and hard. “Go away!” he shouted, then gestured for John to hurry and dress himself.

“Mr. ... Holmes?” Bill Wiggins had picked up on the desperation in Sherlock's voice, and a hint of... fading arousal, maybe?

“You?!” Sherlock barked back at him. “Why are you down here?!”

Stranger: John hurriedly tried to pull on his clothes as quickly as possible, given his stiff and painful leg. As quickly that is, after almost punching the bed or floor or anything, really, in horrendous frustration. "What does he WANT?" he couldn't help from almost yelling that part at Sherlock from the bed.

You: “It's what I want, dear Watson.” Mycroft sounded explicitly un-amused from the other side of the door. “When you two've finished getting dressed we're going to have a little chat about the state of things. Us four.”

At the warehouse Molly stood next to Mary under the roof that protruded a few feet from the building, just enough to shield them from the rain, still going strong where they were at. On either side of them, maybe ten or so feet each way, were two of Mycroft's men, armed with automatic assault rifles. Molly was getting chilly but did her best to hide it, knowing that Mary – staring out blankly at the somber sky – needed the company.

Stranger: "Do we have to?" John said to Sherlock, pulling his jumper back on, his erection rapidly deflating. He gathered the detective's clothing and limped over to bring it to him. His cane leaned by the bed, and having deposited the heap of clothes in Sherlock's arms, he limped back for it, his leg aching in protest.

Mary, meanwhile, attempted to graciously wait out what she believed was happening to finish. Especially given Irene's confirmatory text, she was sure that John and Sherlock had at least slept together by then, if not openly spoken about their feelings for one another. It was her way of doing what was she thought to be best for her husband, and not in small part, doing what was best for Sherlock who she'd grown legitimately fond of. She understood the complexities of human relationships and was not as quaint in her ideals about fidelity as John seemed to be. It was not jealousy that kept her preoccupied, but concern over what John's reaction to her perceived jealousy might be. But even he'd know better, certainly? Than to push her away out of guilt when she'd all but asked Sherlock to make sleeping with him into a habit, when she'd happily allowed him to go on the days he needed to be 'borrowed' for cases. She loved him and did not consider it a sacrifice, if Sherlock was willing to do his part and share him.

You: Sherlock put off getting dressed. He stepped away from the door and over to John now leaning on his crutch. The doctor looked to be in quite a deal of pain, presumably from not taking his medication, and the detective stuck a hand down his pocket to retrieve the bottle. He pressed on the top and turned it, then fished out a pill. “Take it,” he ordered.

Stranger: "I'm saving it." John shook his head. More pressing matters were in the forefront of his mind. "Listen, about just then... you shouldn't worry. You're...." He closed his eyes, it was easier to say what he meant to if he didn't have to stare him down while he said it. "You're absolutely perfect. You really don't have to worry about anything."

You: Embarrassed, Sherlock proceeded to grab at both sides of the doctor's cheeks, and pressed in to force his jaw down. He quickly plopped the pill onto the mans tongue then turned to yank on his boxers. When he'd dressed up to his final shirt button, he sighed and spun back towards the door, not wanting to let Wiggins and Mycroft in yet, but knowing if he didn't that his brother would eventually just open it.

“Um,” Molly muttered into the dank air. Mary looked absolutely exhausted, bags sagging under her eyes and posture slipping further against the brick wall. “There are some futons folded up in the corner. I could set one out for you...”

Stranger: Mary immediately schooled her features into a sweet smile. "Only if you lay down, too. You've been up looking after me this whole time, you're exhausted as well." She allowed herself to be led back into the warehouse. "I won't be persuaded, Molly. You have to rest too," she said following the brunette through the building.

John briefly sputtered and choked on the pill before swallowing it down hard. "Sherlock! For Christ's sake..." He was going to reprimand him about medication without consent or some such, but when he turned, Sherlock had finished dressing himself and the utter disappointment of coming so close, and yet being tantalizingly away from him once again set in. "What does he want, do you know?" The whole time, John's phone kept going off periodically and it only dimly entered his consciousness to look at it at some point.

You: “Obviously,” Sherlock unlocked the door and pulled it open. Though before his brother or Wiggins could make eye contact the detective shuffled next to John and sat himself on the bed.

“Took you long enough,” Mycroft remarked and swept eyes across the room, to make further deductions he immediately wished he hadn't... The politician needed to know what he was working with, however, and how to proceed. Sherlock, no, the entire nation could no longer afford this queer romp to continue. Jim Moriarty had been raising hell throughout London, and it was only escalating. The psychopath had blown another few buildings to bits, fortunately unoccupied, and was broadcasting threats to every screen across the nation. Leaving poetic little hints of his plans, which Mycroft deduced to be full out terrorism before the night was at end.

“Do sit John.” Mycroft grinned at the doctor. “This concerns you as well.”

Stranger: John swallowed nervously but tried to conceal his jitters. Not that it had normally done him much good in the presence of these two... three?... experts at tells. He sat as he had been instructed, but kept his cane in hand. He wasn't really sure why, he just felt unsafe and he thought it best to keep it at the ready. He tried to face either Mycroft or Wiggins but couldn't. He merely chose a spot on the floor, far away enough that it did not make it seem as though he were hanging his head in embarrassment, only looking up long enough at Sherlock for guidance or instructions on what to do next. He was not to be cowed, however, "If this is about..." He chose not to finish his sentence, "I don't see how this is any of your business, Mycroft. Or, anyone's, really."

You: The politician's mouth pulled downward. “It is of everyone's concern when the psychopath you two were tasked on apprehending is out there causing more explosions, or did you both forget about this afternoon in the midst of your frolic?” Mycroft stared at Sherlock now, who promptly glanced over to John then down at his feet.

Stranger: "It's not your concern what we have... or haven't... been doing if it doesn't directly affect what Moriarty might be doing. Christ, everyone that's been down here has tried to make it sound like I'm personally responsible for him continuing on whatever daft scheme he's likely had planned out for years. Sherlock and I are ready!" He tried to begin calmly but quickly became frustrated with the whole affair and wound up raising his voice to Mycroft by the end of his sentence.

You: “Of course,” Mycroft sneered back at him. “Which is why you both have been so busy on the case this entire day instead of having sex.”

John was about to lose it, but before he could stand he felt fingers grasp firmly around his arm. Sherlock knew Mycroft was right, in that they'd picked the wrong day for this all to come to the forefront. He didn't want a confrontation between the doctor and his brother. He just wanted to sit there... to try to focus on whatever it was that Mycroft was about to explain.

Stranger: John stilled himself at Sherlock's touch and awaited Mycroft getting to the bloody point in this damned, especially inopportune conversation.

You: “Molly, isn't it?” Janine stood behind the mousy woman with a nervous smile as she watched her lay out the bedding. “Need any help?”

The pathologist stared at up her awkwardly and returned the gesture. What was this all about? She turned towards Mary, catching her eye. Her face pleading for Mrs. Watson to come up with an excuse for her, not wanting to be anywhere near Sherlock's ex...

“I mean, I just got Ms. Hudson down, and... me and Mary are old friends, so I thought I could–” Janine continued but was cut off by the doctor's wife.

Stranger: "Molly could use a hand, thanks, Janine..." Mary said somewhat uncertainly. Janine had surely cottoned on to the fact that both she and Sherlock had befriended her – in Sherlock's case, more than befriended her – in order to get closer to her former employer. So despite Molly's clear discomfort at having her near, and in spite of the gratitude she felt for Molly right now, she was eager to know where she stood with Janine if they had to be locked in this warehouse for God knows how long. She silently mouthed 'Sorry' to the woman when Janine wasn't looking.

You: Molly did that fake little half smile she did whenever she was uncomfortable, but allowed Janine to help, and continued to lay out the futons and fit them with sheets. When they were set, she left to fetch pillows from a pile stacked up the corner, leaving the other two women alone for a minute.

Stranger: John tried to shift uncomfortably away from Wiggins without being too obvious about what he was doing, even if it meant drawing closer to Sherlock in front of Mycroft, something he was reluctant to do after all of his little jibes about how they'd spent the evening. He thought to check his phone to help project an aura of casualness about him, but his eyes widened briefly when he read the number of text messages he'd been receiving. Wiggins seemed to be intently watching Sherlock, and both Sherlock and Mycroft seemed to be embroiled in the discussion. He quietly pocketed his phone and cleared his throat, wondering when Mycroft might say what concerned him as well.

You: “So, um,” Janine glanced at Molly's back for a moment. “Mary, I...” She had been off enjoying the tabloid money she'd earned for some time before finally returning to London to be with family. And while the two had run into one another since, and were pleasant when they had, neither had been in touch on purpose.

Stranger: "You've been something of a celebrity recently, haven't you?" Mary said brightly, trying to dance a little closer to the awkward subjects of conversation the two were bound to have at some point.

You: Molly was on her way back so Janine hurried. “I'm... I mean,” she stumbled over her words. “I'm not upset. Life's been getting back to normal for me lately... Can we put it all behind us?” Janine genuinely meant it. The situation had been an utter mess, but Mary had moved on, and so had she. Molly set down the pillows then, and the three stood there staring at one another, awkwardly.

“Anyway, that's what I believe he's ultimately plotting,” Mycroft finished. “Now, about what that means for all of you...” The politician glanced between the three other men.

Stranger: Mary nodded, she was relieved to have as little conflict as possible, especially after the particularly trying day they were all enduring, and her own personal role in the conflict that may or may not have been being resolved simultaneously in the room that John had disappeared into with Sherlock. She laid herself down carefully on the pillows, her back relieved to be supported and the exhaustion of the day quickly overtaking her again. In her heyday, she'd have manned a sniper rifle at the entrances, and she might yet, but the pregnancy and the uncertainty with her husband weighed on her and she was so very tired...

John willed Mycroft with all his might to reveal what it might mean since, characteristically, he was speaking far, far over his head. Possibly Sherlock understood and would deign to explain later.

You: “I still think it's love,” Anderson's Scottish friend protested, folding her arms. “Sherlock was to be whisked off to exile, and that's why Moriarty's come back. All this terrorist business is to get his attention. I know it.”

“Bollocks!” Lestrade stepped into their room then and leaned against the wall. “You two are complete idiots.” He shook his gray head.

“Why are you calling me an idiot?” Anderson complained.

“Because you're actually arguing a mad mans motivations!”

“He's not mad!” the Scottish woman interjected. “He's in –”

“...love.” Mycroft sighed at his brother. “Love for you both to have your heads together, and ready to take this on, but John's injured and I see no other way than for him to stay here.” The politician’s eyes flicked over to Wiggins then. “So instead, you'll be heading out with Sherlock, and –”

Stranger: "Yes!" said John abruptly. "Yes!" Perhaps to the surprise of the rest of the members of the room. "Yes, I'll stay. It's best if Sherlock goes on without me, I need to see to my wife. If you'll excuse me..." He stood and leaned heavily on his cane as he walked, quickly as he could outside of the room. He made to turn down the hallway, but really, he had no idea where Mary might be in all this.

John continued on past the doors and stepped out of the safe house, making sure not to be seen or noticed by anyone else. "I need to smoke. Helps take my mind off the leg," he explained to Mycroft's guards. "I'll go a little ways off the house. Mr. Holmes is very invested in his younger brother giving up the habit, and he'll be displeased if Sherlock catches me out here, and wants to smoke too. So, not a word, chaps." He smiled and joked briefly with the guards, then walked on a bit into the secluded wooded area outside of the safe-house. The pill helped dull the ache in his leg and allowed him to walk on, further and further until the clearing was no longer in sight. When he eventually began feeling the pain again from over-using his limb, the GPS in his phone thankfully guided him to a remote little town where he intended to call a cab, expensive fare be damned.

His phone read:

'Oh, puppy. Your master's squirreled all his friends away in his silly little safe house and forgotten all about you. -JM'

'Imagine Sherlock. Thinking of someone that isn't him. -JM'

'That old Watson stubbornness. It's in the breeding, isn't it? -JM'

'I can't decide what's a worse torture, Johnny. Maybe you can help. Is it worse to force your sister to drink, or make it so she can't drink no matter how much she wants to? -JM'

'Family resemblance is especially brought out when she's wearing your old bomb parka. -JM'

'Your sister isn't spreading it for any geniuses, is she? No one running to save this particular Watson? -JM'

And the final one, the most recent of the one's he'd unwittingly ignored:

'Come alone and don't dare let anyone know. Harry'd never forgive for as long (or as short) as she lives. -JM'

You: As John reached the outskirts of the town and headed across the first street he came to, a car pulled up beside him, and he glanced over at it; a black sedan. The drivers window began to slide down. “John Hamish Watson,” Irene sighed.

Molly lay quietly in her bedding, Mary fast asleep beside her and Janine situated above in her own futon, playing some game on her phone, or texting, or something that required her fingers to tap the screen at such a fierce rate. The mousy woman was uncomfortable, and done in, and needed to pass out so desperately, but she just couldn't. So instead the usually timid Ms. Hooper propped herself up and turned to look at Janine.

The woman caught her gaze and smiled, looking back at her phone for a moment before turning her attention fully. “Can't sleep either?” she whispered so as not to wake Mary.

Stranger: "Turn back, Irene." John hobbled on. "Turn back and leave me alone. I can't go back," he said as the car rolled slowly along.

You: Miss Adler rolled her eyes, then sped up and pulled the car over. Stepping out, she started toward the doctor. Not a soul was in sight. It was late and everyone in the quaint little town was already in bed. Her heels clicked as she approached the hobbling man.

Stranger: "Irene, I'm warning you. I don't want to hurt you, but you can't stop me from going. Now leave me alone." He limped along in silence thereafter.

You: This time she sighed and whipped out her phone to send off a text. After following John for a minute or so, wobbling herself a bit due to the uneven brick road, she got a reply and promptly slid a taser out from her coat pocket. She held down the button so that John could clearly hear the sound of buzzing electricity. The Woman had given him two options, to go with her – which he clearly could not do – or run.

Stranger: "Don't. Irene... Miss Adler... please... you've given me no choice, my leg... if you only understood..." John tried to begin a series of sentences which might convince her to at least give him a chance to explain himself.

You: “Doctor's being stubborn,” Mycroft mused at his texts, as he and the entire safe house group made way through the dusky hallway. When reaching the top of the stairs, everyone pooling out into the chill of the early morning, Mycroft reached for Greg's tie and pulled him in close. “Be careful,” he warned him, then planted a firm kiss on his mouth.

Greg just stood there, jaw gaped for a moment or two after Mycroft backed away. Sherlock eyes squinted and rolled in disgust while Anderson and Donovan shared giddy looks of amusement, and Bill Wiggns just glanced about between them to observe.

“Oh, please,” the Scottish woman spoke up from behind them all. “Let's get a move on.”

Everyone turned to look at her.

“What? It's not like I'm staying here by myself.” She shrugged past them, and trotted off to Greg's police car.

“Seriously?” Irene whispered. She wanted to spell it out for him. That he was supposed to run away. That he was supposed to go chasing after his sister despite his battered knee. That she was supposed to chase and 'lose' him, all to make it look right to Moriarty's men in the tree's at the edge of the woods, with sniper scopes fixed on them both...

Stranger: It was never made clear upon the re-telling of this event afterward, whether John understood Irene's message or just decided to strike anyway, but just after she'd asked him, he threw himself onto his knees, groaning, but swung out his cane and swept her off her feet, causing her to fall and drop the taser. He overpowered and pinned her a moment later. "I'm sorry," he muttered absent-absentmindedly as he rifled through her pockets for the car keys. He picked up the taser and righted himself with his cane, then hobbling over to the car he hopped in, and sped away.

You: Mycroft drove. Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, and Wiggins was left to himself in the back. Suddenly the detective got a text and as he read it began chuckling. “We'll need to send someone to pick up Miss Adler.” He didn't explain any further, but continued to chortle at her 'choice words,' for the doctor.

Stranger: John awaited further instructions from the texts and drove back to the outskirts of London, where Harry lived. At her flat, another black sedan, this one not belonging to Mycroft, awaited. He ditched the car and the items he'd stolen from Irene and climbed into the vehicle that awaited him. He was blindfolded and brought to a place where he was made to walk down what felt like an infinity of stairs...

John didn't know how long he'd been left there with the blindfold on, but eventually he was seized and his hands were zip-tied behind his back. He was forced to the ground and his cane was taken. He could hear several people coming down the stairs, clapping slowly and sarcastically, "Gooood!" Moriarty crooned over the sounds of a woman's muffled shrieks of anger. "Good. He comes when he's called. Sherlock has you well trained, Johnny. I have got to congratulate him sometime."

You: Lestrade and company were back at the Yard now, the pepper haired man barking orders to his subordinates. It was chaos. Phone calls were being made, people were shouting over one another. Donovan and Anderson were relaying information to Sherlock through texts whenever a lead broke. “Damn it!” Greg slammed a fist into his desk, only to remember a moment later that it was the one he'd injured earlier. “Shit!” Tears squeezed from his eyelids and the Scottish woman giggled. “Oh shut up!” He swiped his free hand at her. “Get out of my chair and go make us all a cup!” She frowned back snidely but obeyed.

“Boss!” Donovan rushed into the office a moment later. “Someone's found a bomb under their flat.”

Mycroft dropped Sherlock off at Harry's, knowing full well that Moriarty's men would be watching... The detective would have to go, to wherever it was that John was being kept and deal with the man mad himself for now. The politician couldn't tag along and let the whole damn city get blown to bits after all, that clearly being the more pressing matter at hand. But before he drove off he told his brother what he'd told Greg, “Be careful,” and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the sentiment.

“Mr. Holmes,” Bill Wiggns pipped out through the window as Sherlock exited the car. “The game is on.” It was meant to be a form of encouragement, but both the detective and Mycroft scowled at him as the sedan took off.

Stranger: "You didn't even try to ask if you could come with someone, or if I would promise to let her go. You're catching on, sweet pea," said Moriarty, ruffling John's hair as the doctor lay sprawled on the ground, hands tied forward to a small pole in the corner, and bleeding from the lash wounds on his back.

He’d been belted, and kicked, and had no concept of whether he’d been here minutes, or hours. The scar on his shoulder had been retraced with a knife and throughout it all he’d kept any noises of protest down to a minimum. Harry on the other hand had spat and cursed and shrieked and then cursed again as the men in charge of hurting him did their work, ignored her, and then left again. John shuddered violently but said nothing. Harry had learned in the while that he had been there to not interrupt Moriarty, lest her brother suffer the consequences for her speaking out of turn. “The game begins now, Johnny, on the giant chessboard me and Sherlock call London, and no surprise…” Moriarty intoned as if he were about to tell the punchline to a joke and said, “You’re the queen!” He pulled out his phone and texted:

'Found. Lost Pup. Answers to whenever Sherlock Holmes wants him in bed. -JM'

Then a minute later after being informed by one of his henchmen:

'Stop right where you are, Sherlock. Smile for the camera. Simon says don’t come any closer. -JM'

“So much gay in this family,” he continued jibing at them, awaiting the detective's response. “Someone’s childhood must have been...” he whistled to indicate ‘cuckoo’ and laughed at his own joke.

You: Sherlock cursed at the messages, irritated with the psychopath's remarks. He could do nothing but wait, and stood idly at the edge of the curb.

'Send for me, already. -SH'

A minute or so later a car pulled up for the detective, and he got in. But not before sending one final text to Janine and deleting it, first.

Stranger: "Harry... Sherlock will come. Or he'll figure a way out of it, I promise. It's the whole point of this, likely. Don't worry. Just important that you're not hurt." John finally got a chance to speak with her, Moriarty having stepped out of the room.

"Fuck you, John,” she snapped in response. “He won't do anything to me, but he's going to kill you. If it's your boyfriend he's after it doesn't make sense to hurt me, it only makes sense to hurt 'you.'"

Even gasping in pain, John found a way to retort to his sister, "Fuck you, Harry, if you hadn't been caught, this wouldn't have happened."

"Well, if you hadn't dated someone who has super-criminal enemies –"

"We're not dating, Harry, I was married at the wedding you didn't come to so you wouldn't embarrass yourself..."

"Yeah, I drink, you cheat. I've been siting here listening to a crazy person rant about porn of you and your boyfriend together for almost a day now. Kindly get the hell over it," she began to yell, "HEY! WHY DON'T YOU HIT ME INSTEAD?" at the door that kept them locked in. "DO YOU NOT HIT GIRLS OR SOMETHING?"

"Harry! Shut UP! The whole point was to keep you from..."

"Don't you shush me, John Hamish. I'm not going to sit here and watch my brother beaten to..."

"Well, I won't exactly let my sister...."

Of course, two Watson's locked in a room argued alternately, swore viciously at one another, and then bickered over who would sacrifice themselves for the other. It wasn't long before John was dragged away and out of the room leaving Harry to sob and curse by herself.

Moriarty meanwhile, arranged what Sherlock would find on his arrival. A dark room with a single light bulb positioned over a laptop and Harry Watson on the floor below. Nothing more.

You: Janine shook Molly's shoulder's gently, again and again until the petite woman began to stir. “Molly,” she whispered. “Molly, I'm going to need ya to wake up now.” The pathologist's eyes began to flutter out of her exhaustion and she blinked as Janine's face came into focus.

“Huh?... What?” The mousy woman stared.

“Molly,” Janine began, explaining the situation in a hush. Reviewing what she and Sherlock had been discussing, and explaining their role in a thrown together plain. Whispering all the while, unknowing that Mary had awoken too and was listening.

The two got up after, Janine checking on Mrs. Watson before they left the warehouse. But as they exited through the double doors, Mary stood cradling her pregnant belly... with every intent on following them.

Sherlock was blindfolded, just as John had been. It was a bit of a drive, then being led over gravel, then down many metal stairs that made hollow thuds with each step. He was taken to a room without any explanation, and tied to a chair, then left in the dark some thirty minutes before hearing the door behind him creek open.

Stranger: A masked man removed Sherlock's blindfold and allowed him to see the computer screen. The webcam was on, and on the other end, "Hii-i! Glad to see you made it, Sherlock. I have a gift-wrapped Watson for you downstairs, though, kind of a knock-off, not the one you were hoping for, I'm sure." He stepped slightly back from the camera and revealed the unconscious doctor, curled up on the floor behind him. John's leg bending at places that made it clear that his knee had been re-twisted, and his leg had been broken to create angles where none should be. "But enough about the Watson's, they just yip at each other foreee-verrr. Let's talk about us, Sherlock."

You: Sherlock lunged at the screen before him, coming up from the ground and plowing straight into the table. Toppling it over and sending the lap top scuffing against the floor on it's side.

“John!” the detective shouted as he too fell lopsided, his head rattling from the impact. “John!” the detective cried out again, hopelessly.

Stranger: The masked man flipped up the table, righted Sherlock in his seat, replaced the computer and, "Ooooh... what was all 'that?'" Moriarty cooed laughingly from behind the screen. He then placed a hand over his heart and mock sniffled, "Touching. He knows it's... useless," he said dropping the facade and snarling the word 'useless,' "but he was so upset he tried to attack the poor laptop! Johnny? Did you see that, Johnny?" He skipped over to where John lay, not looking into the camera. He took the doctor's face into his hands and forced him to look into the feed broadcasting to Sherlock. "Did you see that? Because he can see you..."

You: Sherlock sat still this time... quietly... thinking... analyzing... In the brief movement Moriarty had made, the slight lifting of John's body... Sherlock's eyes fixed on John's leg for a moment, but no longer. He couldn't let the mad man know what he'd seen, what he'd been able to observe, even though the somewhat fuzzy video connection. 'Billy' had been correct. The game was on, on more than it ever had been, and the detective's distraction from the day prior was now his greatest motivation to focus.

Sherlock straightened his spine as much as he could through the rope that bound him, and stared emotionlessly back at Jim Moriarty.

“Fine,” the detective said evenly. “We'll do it your way.”

It was a quiet part of town where the first explosion took – the first that mattered anyway. It was a little shop, a twenty four hour convenience store, that was blown to bits, causing the first two causalities of Moriarty's 'game.'  
London's terror alert was raised and there would soon be looters, chaos, the general populous dashing about like beheaded chickens. Mycroft kept making calls, using code words, and sometimes even full sentences, as Wiggins received texts from Donovan and Anderson at the Yard. The scraggly protege was overwhelmed, but Sherlock's mobile was now off the grid and he was their next best bet – sans Mycroft busy with his gibberish affairs – at piecing clues together.

Stranger: "Now, Sherlock, I'm going to do you a favor! Because you've been such a good boy and stayed inside all day cooped up playing with your puppy here instead of interfering in Daddy's plans!" He beamed brightly and clasped his fingers together. "Now I know better than anyone you've got a..." He wavered his head from side to side as if searching for the right word, "'flair' for the dramatic, so I've set the stage for you to be grandiose! Here's how this works. My friends and I have John here, and more of my friends have you there. So. I'm going to propose something to do... and you're going to sit there and choose!" he said, as if explaining the rules of a game to a small child. "You're going to choose whether it happens to John, or it happens to you. Ready?"


End file.
